Today, I received an email I had been waiting on for what felt like forever—an email that held my future security of staying in Australia in its hands. Leading up to this moment, I had imagined how overjoyed and ecstatic I’d feel. I thought I’d cry with happiness, maybe even dance around the house. But those feelings never rose to the surface.
Instead, I was hit with a familiar wave of overwhelming grief—an ache in my chest, a sense of loss, and a physical pain that pulsed through my heart.
I had nobody to truly share this monumental event with.
The first person I messaged was one of my aunts—the one who, despite everything, has shown up with unconditional love and support. Then came the next aunt, the one who adopted me—the one I wasn’t sure would even be happy about the news. I hesitated before hitting send. And then came the cousins, and then my friends.
My first aunt called immediately, her voice full of warmth and celebration. My friends replied with overjoyed messages and heartfelt excitement. But when it came to that second aunt—the one I still, somehow, held hope that one day she would love me unconditionally—left my heart sinking. Her congratulations felt cold and forced. When I gently reminded her she could always call, I was met with excuses about why she won’t. And just like that, my heart deflated and the hope I had clung to dissolved into the silence I’ve known too well.
But that wasn’t the root of the pain.
What cracked open inside me was something deeper. It came from the same old wound I’ve carried through the years: the loss of my parents. The sadness I felt was actually a deep yearning to share this moment with those that would have shared my excitement and voiced how proud they were of me. I had lost another moment to experience something meaningful with the two people who loved me in the way only parents can. No one to look at me with that soul-deep pride that says, “I see you. I know how hard this was. I’m so proud of who you’ve become.”
And I felt it in my bones: this moment, like so many others, would never be quite as bold, as full, as alive without them here to witness it.
This wasn’t the first time I felt this longing. It whispered through other chapters too—graduating school, moving away and into university residence, falling in love, buying my first place, moving overseas. A part of me believed that if I just moved far enough, I could leave the pain behind. But trust me, it follows you.
Grief doesn’t disappear with distance and it might not even disappear with time; instead it slowly fades, still there, but not as distinct. It doesn’t fade just because your life grows fuller, it lingers, reshaping itself, resurfacing in moments you least expect, but feel the most.
And I know this won’t be the last time I feel it. I know that in the years to come, as I keep growing, achieving, evolving, and reaching milestones, there will be more moments that echo with that quiet ache—the wish that they could see me now.
Many people might assume that grief only appears in times of darkness, but the truth is—grief doesn’t just visit in times of loss. It can return, sometimes sharply, during life’s most joyful chapters.
We’re taught to associate life’s milestones with celebration—graduations, promotions, new homes, marriages, babies, moving to a new country. These are supposed to be the “good” moments, the ones we work hard for and dream about. But for some of us, especially those navigating trauma or loss, these moments also hold something else: a quiet ache. A wave of grief that rises, often unexpectedly – and this is completely normal.
The Grief No One Talks About
There’s a particular kind of sorrow that lives in success when the people we most want to share it with are no longer here—or had never fully showed up for us to begin with. The parent who passed too soon. The caregiver who was physically present but emotionally absent. The family member who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—celebrate you. These absences can echo louder in moments when life asks us to pause, reflect, and acknowledge how far we’ve come.
Maybe you got the job, the visa, or the keys to your first home. And instead of pure joy, you feel a mix of pride and loneliness. Maybe you imagined a text from someone who never sends one, or heard your parents’ voices in your mind even though they’ve been gone for years. This is the hidden layer of grief that often goes unspoken—and yet, it’s incredibly real.
Why Milestones Trigger Old Wounds
Trauma doesn’t disappear because time has passed. It lives in our nervous system, our memory, and our subconscious. Big life events are often emotional thresholds—they invite us to reflect on the past, assess our worth, and take up space. That invitation alone can stir long-buried pain.
You might find yourself thinking:
I wish they could see me now.
Why do I still long for their approval?
Why does this win feel so… heavy?
These thoughts don’t signal something’s wrong—they’re echoes of old attachments, unmet needs, and the very real human desire to be seen, loved, and celebrated.
When Family Dynamics Complicate the Joy
Sometimes the grief doesn’t stem from death, but from distance, estrangement, or conditional relationships. Maybe a caregiver minimizes your success, or withholds warmth unless it’s on their terms. Maybe they’re available for others in the family, but not for you—and that unequal treatment reopens old wounds.
It can be painful to realize someone you still hope will show up simply won’t—or can’t—in the way you need them to. Even more painful is the internal dialogue that follows: “Why am I still hoping? Shouldn’t I be over this by now?”
But here’s the truth: our hearts don’t operate on logic. They operate on longing. And longing isn’t a weakness—it’s part of being alive.
You’re Allowed to Feel Both
You can be proud and grieving. You can celebrate your achievement and still cry over who isn’t there to witness it. Grief and joy are not mutually exclusive. They often sit side-by-side in the same moment. When we reject one in favor of the other, we disconnect from the fullness of our lived experience.
The healing work isn’t in trying to push grief away—it’s in allowing both truths to coexist:
“This is a beautiful moment.”
“And I wish they were here.”
How to Honor the Grief Without Letting It Steal the Joy
1. Acknowledge what’s missing.
Say it out loud or write it down. “I miss them.” “I wish this moment felt more supported.” Naming it brings the unconscious to the surface, where it can be met with compassion.
2. Create your own ritual.
Light a candle. Frame a photo. Write a letter to the person you miss. Speak their name into the room. Invite them into your moment in whatever way feels right for you.
3. Validate your emotional complexity.
It’s okay to feel sad in the middle of something good. You are not ungrateful. You’re responding to the depth of your own story—and that deserves tenderness, not judgment.
4. Let others hold space for you.
Grief can feel isolating, especially when it arrives in moments meant for celebration. Let someone you trust hear your truth without trying to fix it. Sometimes the most healing words are simply, “I understand. I see you.”
5. Parent yourself through the moment.
Give yourself what was missing. Offer the love, pride, or comfort you longed to receive. Remind yourself: “You’ve come so far. I’m proud of you. You deserve this.”
You’re Not Alone
If you find yourself carrying an invisible weight on days that are supposed to shine, know this: you are not alone, and there is nothing wrong with you. The presence of grief in a joyful moment doesn’t dim your light—it deepens it.
Your capacity to hold both pain and pride, sorrow and success, is a reflection of your resilience. It speaks to the strength you’ve built from everything you’ve survived.
This is what it means to be human. And it’s also what it means to heal—not to erase the grief, but to make room for it beside the joy.
If you’re navigating complex emotions around a life transition or personal milestone, I’d be honored to walk with you. I offer trauma-informed coaching designed to help you reconnect with your wholeness—grief and all.