Released On 07 April 2025
Sheila's blog: What Grief Teaches Us About Love and Connection
Grief came into my life early. I was nine when my best friend died in a tragic accident. At that age, I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling—I just knew something had shifted. I withdrew. I became careful with my connections. Somewhere inside me, I had decided that if I didn’t get too close, I wouldn’t have to feel that kind of pain again.
It took time—years, in fact—and a move to another country, for me to begin to unlearn that. As I slowly allowed myself to reconnect, I discovered something I hadn’t expected: a sense of excitement. The possibility of joy. Of meaning. Of being truly seen. Yes, to love is to risk, but it’s also to live more fully. And that’s a risk I’ve come to believe is worth taking—every time.
Friends of mine are facing deep losses—parents, best friends, the foundations of their personal worlds. And beyond that, there’s a wider ripple. We’re five years on from the start of the pandemic, and its impact still lingers—not just in memory, but in how we move through the world. The global landscape feels unstable—geopolitical shifts, rising tensions, a sense that certainty is harder to come by. Life feels more fragile. And in that fragility, I sense a shared, often unspoken grief—a quiet presence that sits beside so many of us.
In the midst of this, I came across a line from Carla Fernandez’s forthcoming book, Renegade Grief, that stayed with me:
“I see grief as a sharpener of our senses and an enhancer of our ability to connect. I see it as an expander of our empathy, and as an express elevator that brings us closer to the burning core of the human condition.”
That captures it. Grief, when it comes, strips everything back. It demands presence. It deepens empathy. It reminds us that what we feel—and what others feel—matters. It’s not something to fix or avoid, but something to honour. And perhaps most importantly, it’s something to share.
Because even though grief is deeply personal, it becomes less heavy when we speak it aloud. In conversation, in writing, in moments of stillness with people we trust—it softens. It connects. It helps us remember that we’re not alone. And maybe that, too, is a form of love: the act of sitting beside someone else’s sorrow and making space for their story.
That’s why I try to live by something simple, but important: Be kind, always. We never really know what someone is carrying. Grief often walks silently beside people. A little more gentleness, a little more understanding—it can make all the difference.
Living with MS brings its own daily awareness of fragility. Not always loudly, but quietly—like a background hum. And yet, that hum has taught me to notice things more: the beauty in the everyday, the value of connection, the fleeting nature of certainty. In that way, grief has been a teacher. And love—patient, steady, sometimes fierce—has been the thread that holds it all together.
Rumi wrote, “This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.” Grief is one of those arrivals. We don’t ask for it. We rarely feel ready for it. But it can still bring something of worth. It shows us what we’ve loved. Who we’ve loved. It sharpens our sense of what matters.
Grief, I’ve come to believe, is the shadow side of love. Its presence means there was something real. And even when it hurts, I wouldn’t trade it—for it means I’ve had the gift of loving in the first place.
Sheila has worked in the asset management industry for over 15 years. She is married to a wonderful husband, is mother to two amazing children, has Secondary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis and lives in London. Sheila goes to the MS Therapy Centre in Harrow for physio and hyperbaric oxygen therapy once a week. Donations to support this wonderful organisation are very welcome. Sheila can be found on Instagram @MS_in_the_City. https://www.harrowmscentre.co.uk/donate
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