Grieving While Grown: The Quiet Sorrows of Midlife

"So you must not be frightened if a sadness rises up before you larger than any you have ever see; if a restlessness like light and cloud shadows, passes over your hands and over all you do. You must think that something is happening with you. That life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall." Rainer Maria Rilke

In late midlife, a quiet sorrow often weaves through our lives—one that lacks words or a formal farewell. It appears in the shifting of seasons and the subtle goodbyes that accumulate.

We mourn the neighborhoods we left behind, the jobs that once gave us a sense of purpose, the friendships that have faded, and the routines that once felt familiar. We grieve for our parents and siblings, certainly—but also for the public figures, musicians, and cultural icons who influenced the soundtrack of our lives. Just this month, I've encountered the transitions of Assata Shakur, Jane Goodall, Diane Keaton, and D'Angelo. Although I didn't know them personally, each represented a period and people in my life who are now gone.

We mourn the versions of ourselves we used to be and the spaces we once occupied—spiritually, emotionally, and physically. We start to recognize that one day, perhaps sooner than we think, others will mourn us. When we hear of someone's passing, we are interested in whether they were close to our age and are particularly curious about the cause of their death. Was it something that could have been avoided? Could it affect us? How much time do I truly have?

We mourn the way our bodies used to move and the need to be cautious with sudden movements.

Recently, I was dealing with a particularly difficult package. Instead of using scissors, I attempted to open it as I did in my younger days — by simply tearing it open! Then I felt a twinge of sadness because I realized that, as I age, I likely won't be able to open packages the same way.

In my 20s, 40s, and now in my 60s, I have always experienced a moment when I notice changes in my physical state: the form, the flexibility, or its absence. The texture of my skin and hair, and the pace at which I accomplish tasks, have transformed. I recall turning 40 and realizing I no longer wanted to jump out of bed as I had done in the previous 39 years. I felt the urge to lie awake until my body felt prepared to rise. A shift.

And there are many shifts, and they are so subtle. You don't notice them until you do, and then in a small or sometimes big way--you grieve.

Grief, in all its forms, asks for acknowledgment. And autumn—with its falling leaves and cooler air—invites us to honor what has ended.

The Season of Release

Fall is nature’s way of teaching us how to let go. The trees do not fight their losses; they simply release what is no longer needed to make room for rest and renewal. In the same way, midlife brings its own autumn—a time when we begin shedding the roles, identities, and attachments that once defined us. This is when I give my worries, anxiety, and grief to God. God knows we will experience grief in this life, but we're not meant to walk through it alone. He wants us to seek comfort. Jesus taught, "Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted" (Matthew 5:4). Relying on God and others we trust can relieve our sorrow and provide support. Grief is not meant to be a permanent season. It is a season we pass through. If you feel you are having trouble releasing your grief to the point it is affecting your day-to-day life, please seek spiritual or clinical counseling.

Letting go might look like:

• Retiring from a career that gave your days rhythm.

• Selling a family home that once held laughter and milestones.

• Accepting that some friendships no longer fit who you’re becoming.

• Mourning a sibling or friend who knew your childhood stories.

• Feeling a pang of nostalgia when a favorite artist or celebrity passes, realizing how much of your own history is woven into theirs.

  
  

It’s not just the big losses that weigh heavily—it’s the accumulation of small ones. The quiet spaces left behind.

The Emotional Work of Autumn

After 55, grief can feel layered. It’s not only about who or what we’ve lost, but who we were in those seasons. The teacher. The daughter. The wife. The caregiver. The woman is always “on the go.”

When those roles fade or shift, a new kind of mourning begins—the loss of identity. We also grieve not only what was, but what will never be. Whether you thought you'd be married, or that you'd have children, or feeling it's too late to pursue an interest or career. Acceptance of where your life has brought you is essential to your peace. Just like the earth prepares for winter by conserving its energy, this is also a time to return inward and reclaim what remains sacred and alive within us. It's time to get ready for the Spring of your life ahead.

How to Move Through Grief While grief definitely has its own timetable, when you are ready, there are steps that you can take to ease the pain and ease you into your next season.

1. Name What You Miss. Write a list of the people, places, and parts of yourself you’re grieving. Naming them helps you honor their impact.

2. Create a Ritual of Release. Light a candle, say a prayer, or place leaves in a bowl of water—each one representing something you’re ready to lay down.

3. Allow Joy to Return Slowly. Grief and gratitude can coexist. Let joy find its way back in small ways—through a walk, a song, or laughter with someone who understands.

4. Stay Connected. Grief isolates, but community heals. Call an old friend. Join a group. Let yourself be seen.

   
   

A Gentle Reminder

Just as the fall season reminds us that endings are part of the natural rhythm of life, your own grief holds the seed of renewal. You are allowed to miss what was—and still look forward to what’s next.

Release doesn’t mean forgetting. It means trusting that what’s gone has given all it came to give.

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Prayer for the Week

God of Seasons and Shifting Leaves, Teach me to let go without fear. Help me honor what has passed and hold tenderly what remains.May I see beauty even in the bare branches of my becoming. Amen