Am I grieving wrong? Relief, guilt and the grief nobody prepares you for

Kate Nudds didn't know she was grieving. Her mum had died during COVID, and she felt so unlike herself that she thought she was ill. She spoke to a doctor and was given antidepressants, but she wasn't sure depression explained what was happening. Eventually she typed her symptoms into Google. Grief. Having a name for it was a relief. Not because the pain disappeared, but because she could finally understand something of what she was going through.

Before that, Kate ran a recruitment agency. Her experience changed the direction of her life. She became a grief coach because she didn't want other people to feel as alone, or as confused, as she had. When we spoke, I wanted to start with the question so many people quietly ask: am I grieving wrong?

How do I know if I am grieving properly?

We seem to carry an imaginary guidebook: be sad, but not too sad. Take some time, but don't take too long. Return to work, but don't look too happy about it. Cry enough to show you cared. Stop crying before it makes everybody uncomfortable.

Kate's answer is that there isn't one correct emotional response. Grief can contain sadness, anger, shame, guilt and relief, sometimes close together. It depends on what you've lost, the relationship you had and the life you're trying to live around that absence. There are coping mechanisms that support you and others that can make things harder; Kate describes eating and drinking more as hers. But an unexpected feeling isn't proof that you've failed some test.

It's kind of other people's expectations that are put on us that make us feel like we should be grieving differently or doing something different.

So perhaps the useful question isn't whether your grief looks proper. It's whether you have somewhere to be honest about it, and whether you need support. Kate keeps returning to talking: with family if they're supportive, with someone outside the family if they're not, and without waiting until you can explain everything neatly.

Siblings grieve differently, even when they lose the same parent

Kate is one of four siblings. Watching them respond differently to their mum's death made her think something was wrong with her. But being children of the same mother doesn't mean having the same relationship with her. The firstborn and the fourth child have different histories, different roles and different memories.

When siblings grieve differently, it's easy to read somebody else's behaviour as a judgement on yours. Why aren't they talking? Why are they clearing things out? Why are they still crying? Kate and her siblings struggled to understand each other's experiences because none of them was living the other's grief.

Her suggestion isn't to make everyone respond alike. It's to allow the difference: you're grieving your way, I'm grieving mine. Being open about feeling sad, angry or guilty offers more room for support than expecting people to guess, or treating one person's response as the family standard.

Grieving a difficult relationship with a parent

Not every loss comes with a lovely relationship to look back on. Sometimes you're grieving a difficult relationship with a parent, with years of disappointment or distance behind it. Death doesn't tidy those years up. It can make their finality harder to bear.

Kate explains that you may be grieving the relationship you never had: the hope that one day you'd be understood, receive an apology or become close. While somebody is alive, that possibility can remain, however unlikely. After their death, you're also facing the fact that it won't happen.

Estrangement can bring that kind of grief without a death at all. And even a loving relationship contains several losses. A mother might also have been your best friend, your confidante and the person who made the world feel steady. You're not necessarily grieving just one role.

Feeling relieved when someone dies: is that normal?

I asked Kate about someone saying their mum had died and they were glad. People were shocked. I thought naming something so difficult was brave. If you're asking, is it normal to feel relief when someone dies, Kate's answer makes room for it: relief can be part of grief, and it can mean very different things.

It might be relief that somebody is no longer in pain. It might be relief that the pressure on you has ended. Or it might be relief that a complicated relationship no longer has to be negotiated. Feeling relieved when someone dies doesn't tell a stranger the whole story of your relationship. It certainly doesn't give them enough information to judge it.

Then comes guilt about the relief. Kate encourages naming the feeling honestly rather than pretending it's something more acceptable. If another person's relief provokes us, she suggests pausing before responding: what has it brought up in me? Their loss is not mine. My longing to have somebody back doesn't cancel their experience of somebody being gone.

Anticipatory grief: grieving before someone dies

Anticipatory grief means grief that begins before an expected loss. You know someone is approaching the end of their life, or you're already losing parts of the relationship while they're still here. Kate describes anticipatory grief with dementia: the person is physically present, but the connection you knew may be changing.

There can be guilt about grieving someone who is still alive. There can be sadness, fear and uncertainty about what happens next. Those are experiences discussed in our conversation, not a checklist of anticipatory grief symptoms that everyone will have. And grieving beforehand doesn't mean the death will arrive without shock.

You grieve in anticipatory grief and then when they go, you think, okay, well, I've been grieving, so surely it's not going to be quite such a shock. And then it's a shock as well.

I wanted to know whether we can prepare. Kate wishes she'd taken more photographs. People she works with often wish they had videos, a recording of a voice, or a picture of just the two of them rather than another group shot. Her suggestion is to consider what you might miss and whether there's something you can preserve now, if the person is comfortable with it. That isn't another task to get perfectly right. It won't prevent grief, and not having those things isn't a reason to blame yourself.

Physical symptoms of grief and anxiety

Kate had panic attacks for the first time after her mum died. Her heart raced. Her jaw ached, and she discovered she was grinding her teeth at night. She talks about headaches and feeling physically unwell, alongside the emotional distress. Her experience is a reminder that bereavement isn't something we only think about. We live through it in our bodies too.

If you're searching for physical symptoms of grief, or physical symptoms of grief and anxiety, recognising that connection can be reassuring. But it isn't a diagnosis. A racing heart, pain or other new symptoms shouldn't automatically be put down to grief. Speak to your GP about symptoms that worry you, persist or affect daily life; seek urgent medical help for severe or sudden symptoms.

How long do physical symptoms of grief last? This conversation doesn't offer a medical timescale, and Kate's experience can't tell you how long yours will last. You don't have to wait for an imagined deadline before asking for help. Looking after a grieving body and having it checked when needed are not competing choices.

Losing confidence after bereavement

One of the changes Kate couldn't understand was losing confidence. Her mum had been her anchor to the world. Without her, she felt like a carrier bag in the wind, carried from place to place without knowing quite what she was doing. Therapy helped her make sense of that feeling.

We often expect ourselves to return to a job and produce exactly what we produced before, as though grief is an appointment we've finished attending. Kate found that loss changed her outlook and what she wanted from work. That doesn't mean everyone needs to change careers after bereavement. It means feeling different doesn't have to become another thing you criticise yourself for.

How long does grief last?

If you're asking how long does grief last after the death of a mother, or how long does grief last after the death of a parent, you're probably looking for something solid to hold on to. A date when it will hurt less. A point when you'll recognise yourself again. Kate doesn't offer an end date.

In her own experience and her work with clients, the first two years have often been particularly hard. The first year brings the first birthday, Christmas and anniversary. The second can carry a different ache: saying it happened last year, then two years ago, moving further from the last time you saw them. That's Kate's observation, not a rule or a deadline for anybody else's grief.

She describes learning to integrate grief into life rather than finishing it. Years later, she can still struggle to look at photographs of her mum and comprehend that she's not here. What's changed is some of the pressure she puts on herself about having that response.

Unexpected waves of grief and when to clear out someone's belongings

You might prepare for an anniversary and then be floored by a piece of post. Or a name in a WhatsApp group. Or the fleeting certainty that you've seen them driving past, before you remember. Kate describes unexpected waves of grief: sometimes a tidal wave, sometimes water lapping at the shore. The ordinary things can catch you precisely because you didn't know to brace for them.

That brings up the practical questions nobody hands you answers to. When to clear out someone's belongings after death? When to remove the toothbrush, take down the coat by the door, or take their name out of a group chat? Some people need the visual reminders gone quickly. Others take comfort from keeping them. Neither choice measures how much you loved somebody.

Kate's emphasis is on what helps you in the moment, not what looks like progress from outside. Taking a pause when the post arrives is allowed. Keeping a coat isn't automatically being stuck. Clearing it away isn't forgetting.

Feeling guilty for being happy after a death

Friends have told me about laughing, booking a holiday or being genuinely excited about something, then suddenly stopping themselves. Should I feel this happy? Feeling guilty for laughing after someone dies can turn a lovely moment into another test of whether you're grieving properly.

Kate names the belief underneath: if you're not in pain, perhaps you didn't love them enough. But pain isn't a debt you owe. Her question stayed with me: do you have to be in pain to show how much you love somebody?

How to deal with guilt after a death isn't something we can reduce to one instruction. Kate suggests giving yourself permission to live while still grieving, and talking about the guilt rather than wearing it as proof of love. You can miss someone and enjoy an evening. You can cry tomorrow and laugh today. Neither feeling cancels the other.

Keeping a connection with someone who has died

Kate talks about continuing bonds: finding ways to bring the person into your life rather than treating living as leaving them behind. Cook their favourite recipe. Make a new family tradition. Journal about them. Have a memory bear made from clothing that matters to you. Those are possibilities, not requirements.

Keeping a connection with someone who has died doesn't have to mean being visibly sad all the time. It can be quiet, personal and woven into a life that still contains things you want to do. You aren't required to keep every object, or to make a ritual that doesn't feel right.

Grief after divorce, estrangement or losing a business

Kate began by widening the word grief. Pet loss, baby loss, loss of health, finances or a business, divorce, estrangement and an empty nest can all involve loss or change. Not every grief has a funeral. Some involve a person who is still alive; some involve a future you thought you were going to have.

That doesn't make these experiences identical. It means you don't need a particular kind of loss before you're allowed to acknowledge that something hurts. The same invitation runs through our conversation: name what you're feeling, allow for other people's differences, and seek support without first proving that you're suffering correctly.

You don't need to become an expert in grief to deserve help with yours. And you don't need to stay in pain every minute to keep someone in your heart.

This article shares a conversation and personal experiences, not medical advice. Your GP or a bereavement support service such as Cruse can help if you're struggling or want someone to talk to.