When the life you knew no longer exists.

Someone died.vA relationship ended. You received a diagnosis. You lost a pregnancy, a job, a home, a community, a dream—or a future you were certain you were going to have.

Sometimes loss is one enormous moment. And sometimes it's the slow realization that life is not going to be what you thought it would be.

Grief can leave you with questions that aren't really looking for answers.

Why did this happen? Where is God in this? Who am I now? What am I supposed to do with the life that's left? How can the rest of the world keep moving when mine has changed completely?

Maybe the things you once believed still comfort you.Maybe they don't.

Maybe you're angry with God. Maybe you desperately want to believe there is something beyond this loss, but you aren't sure anymore. Or maybe your questions aren't religious at all. You simply know that something fundamental has changed, and you are trying to understand how to live inside a life you didn't choose.

You don't have to make meaning out of your loss here. You don't have to find the lesson, look for the blessing, accept that everything happens for a reason, or become a better person because something terrible happened.

Some things are simply devastating.

Sometimes what we need first isn't an explanation. Sometimes we need somewhere our grief can be exactly what it is.

Grief can change more than how you feel.

Loss can change the way you understand almost everything. Yourself. Other people. The future. What matters. What you believe. And sometimes, your relationship with God.

Things you once felt certain about may suddenly feel impossible to believe. Prayers that once comforted you may feel empty. Places or communities where you once felt at home may no longer fit.

Or perhaps your faith becomes incredibly important to you—and at the same time, incredibly complicated.

You may find yourself asking questions you never expected to ask.

Where were you? Why didn't you stop this? How am I supposed to trust you now? Where is the person I lost? Can I still have a relationship with them even though they aren’t here? Will I ever see them again? What am I supposed to believe about any of this?

And grief can raise questions that have nothing to do with religion.

Who am I without this person? What happens to all the love I still have for someone who isn't here? Am I allowed to experience joy again? What do I do with the future we were supposed to have? How do I keep loving someone who is gone while continuing to live a life they are no longer physically part of? There may not be neat answers to those questions.

But the questions themselves deserve somewhere to go.

Spiritual direction can be one of those places. You don't have to defend your faith here. And you don't have to defend your doubt. You don't have to make your grief more comfortable for someone else. We can simply begin with what is true for you now—and pay attention to what happens from there.

There is no timetable for becoming okay.

Grief doesn't follow a schedule.

There isn't a point when you are supposed to be finished. Other people may begin returning to their ordinary lives long before anything about your life feels ordinary again. They may stop asking how you're doing. They may expect you to be better. They may become uncomfortable when you still need to talk about the person you lost—or the life you lost.

And sometimes, without meaning to, people begin encouraging you to move on. But moving forward doesn't have to mean leaving something—or someone—behind.

You are allowed to carry what you love with you.

Over time, your relationship with grief may change. There may be moments when life begins to feel beautiful again. You may laugh without immediately feeling guilty. You may discover parts of yourself you didn't know were there. You may even build a life that is meaningful and good.

None of that means the loss mattered less. And none of it requires you to stop loving what you lost.

Spiritual direction can offer a place where grief doesn't have to be hurried, explained, fixed, or made more comfortable. A place where we can pay attention to what has been lost—and also, when you are ready, to what remains.

Love. Memory. Connection. Questions. Anger. Hope. Maybe even joy.

And perhaps, eventually, the quiet discovery that grief and a meaningful life do not have to be opposites.

You can carry both.

You don't have to know what you need.

You may not know what you want to talk about. You may come with a question. You may come with a story you've told a hundred times and still need to tell again.

You may want to talk about the person you lost. You may want to talk about God. You may want to talk about how angry you are. Or you may sit down and realize you have absolutely no idea what to say.

That's okay too.

Grief doesn't need an agenda. In spiritual direction, we can simply begin with where you are. We can notice what hurts, what you miss, what you're questioning, what you're afraid of, and what you're longing for.

We can talk about the ways your loss has changed your relationship with yourself, with other people, with the life you thought you would have—and, if it matters to you, with God or the Divine.

And when moments of beauty, connection, laughter, hope, or even joy begin appearing again, we can make room for those too.

There is no destination I'm trying to get you to, that’s one of the differences between spiritual direction and therapy. I'm not here to help you “get over” what happened. I'm here to sit beside you while you discover what it means to carry this loss—and this love—into the life that continues.

You don't have to know how to do that yet. You just don't have to do it alone.

If loss has changed your life and you need somewhere to bring what remains, I'd be honored to listen.