Grief Doesn’t Get Easier

I used to think that if I learned enough about death, did enough inner work, and faced loss with enough presence, I’d eventually get good at grieving—that experience would make it easier “the next time.”

Five losses later—across four grandparents and my father—I’ve learned the opposite. Grief doesn’t get easier with practice. It doesn’t follow what you learned the last time.

But it does teach you—each time—a different way to love someone all the way to the end.

I was lucky, in a way, to be born with all four grandparents still alive—extra people to dote on me, shower me with gifts, and love me deeply. Friends who didn’t know their grandparents always envied that.

Ye Ye

The first death I experienced was my paternal grandfather’s—Ye Ye.

He always doted on us. During Chinese New Year, we’d play ban lak together. If we lost, he would pay for us. If we won, we got to keep the money.

Every school holiday, when we stayed at my grandparents’ house, he would buy us treats or pretty stationery. He was healthy, cycling every day to his fruit stall. Then he retired. And when cancer came, it came fast. He was diagnosed with throat cancer, and almost overnight, he could no longer eat or speak.

At 20, I didn’t know how to face death. I just kept visiting him—not even because I wanted to, but because I felt it was a way to support my grandmother, whom I was very close to.

The night before he passed, he took a turn for the worse. At 4 a.m., the whole family gathered. But after a while, his breathing steadied, and we returned to our routines. I even went to school for a tutorial I couldn’t miss.

On my way back, my pager rang nonstop while I sat stuck on a bus along the highway. Back then, there were no mobile phones. There was no way to call back.

By the time I reached my grandmother’s house, my worst fear had come true. He had already passed. When I saw him, his body was cold.

That was when I learned about 回光返照—a brief rally before the end.

I also learned that grief can feel like numbness, that it truly hits when the body is pushed into the fire… and that it comes in waves you don’t expect.

For months after, I would pause whenever I saw an old man his age. Grief doesn’t announce itself politely. It hides in ordinary moments and ambushes you.

Ah Gong

My next brush with death was my maternal grandfather’s.

He didn’t live with us. My memories of him are of a gentle man who visited a few times a year, always bringing gifts. Sometimes, we had to go downstairs to meet him because my grandmother didn’t like to see him.

I don’t remember much about his passing except the shock of learning he had another family elsewhere only at the funeral. When I was much younger, my mother said Ah Gong slept in his taxi when I asked her why he didnt stay with us. When I got older and asked again, she just left it as "he is staying with a friend..." and I always thought of that friend as a male housemate. So it was really a surprise for me to see this whole other family at a very awkward funeral.

I still felt sad at his cremation—but I didn’t miss him the way I missed Ye Ye.

And that taught me something too: grief isn’t uniform. It doesn’t arrive the same way for every loss. Closeness shapes it as much as death does.

Ah Ma

A few years later, my paternal grandmother—Ah Ma—fell ill.

We were very close. Every time we visited, she would cook our favorite dishes—fried sotong balls, braised chicken, pig tail soup. When we stayed over, she would take everyone’s breakfast orders the night before—even if all eight cousins wanted eight different things—and she would queue to buy them all.

After Ye Ye passed, she moved closer to us. Later, she would even help feed my young son. 

Then one day, she went out and didn’t come home.

She had gone to visit her brother but forgot where she was going. When she finally returned, she explained she had suddenly lost her bearings and only regained clarity hours later.

That was the beginning of her dementia.

She stopped recognizing us. I would tell her who I was each time I saw her, knowing how frustrating it must be not to remember.

And then, eventually, she forgot that she couldn’t remember.

But I learned something else: people with dementia still remember love.

There was a period when she was hospitalized for months. I visited every morning at 10 a.m. One day, I couldn’t go. The next day, her helper told me that at exactly 10 a.m., she had asked, “Where is Ah Joo?”—my nickname. She hadn’t recognized me in years.

As her condition worsened, she could no longer swallow food. Yet she still worried about me—why I only had one child, whether I wanted Milo. Even then, she was giving.

Eventually, she caught a hospital infection.

By then, I had started doing personal development work and learning about death. My teacher, Lency, shared something that changed how I would face loss forever.

Most people are afraid of death. So when someone is dying, we pull away.

But that’s when they need us most.

Instead of retreating, we are meant to move closer—to love, to let go of regret, to forgive ourselves for what we didn’t do well enough.

I tried to live that out with Ah Ma.

And still, I missed her terribly.

I would be in the middle of yoga and suddenly catch the scent of her soap and start crying. But over time, something shifted. I still missed her—but I could think of her with more love than pain.

Daddy

My father loved us deeply—there was never any doubt.

He once promised my mother he wouldn’t interfere when she disciplined us. So when she scolded or caned us, he stayed silent—but his face would darken, and he would stop speaking to her for days instead.

He was that kind of man.

As a grandfather, he would force himself to stand at the stove—despite weak legs—to cook my son’s favorite “black black noodles.” After my divorce, he quietly made lunch appointments with my son, just to make sure he was eating well.

When my mother told him about my divorce, he didn’t say a word to me. But he asked her constantly how I was doing. That was his way of caring.

He had poor health, but I always thought we had more time—maybe even enough for him to see my son graduate.

Then COVID came.

The hospital called us to come quickly. By the time I arrived, the doctor waited for me to put on my protective gear before telling me he had already passed.

I didn’t get to see him one last time.

Three days earlier, we had a video call—he looked like he was getting better.

And then suddenly, he was gone.

Grieving without touch—without presence—was its own kind of pain.

I tried to focus on his love rather than how he left. But grief kept surprising me. Just when I thought I had healed, it would return.

It took me a full year to feel the anger beneath the sadness—anger at him for leaving, for “abandoning” us by dying.

Logically, it made no sense. And given that I am now almost an EXPERT in letting go of my loved ones, it didn't make sense to me why I was still feeling all these emotions after so long. But the heart doesn’t listen to logic. It takes its own time.

Even now, there are moments when I think of him, and tears come without warning. I do miss him and I do still feel a connection to him and I guess one will always feel their parents' love no matter what.

Popo

My maternal grandmother—Popo—was always healthy.

Because she lived with us, she was part of our daily life. She woke us up, made breakfast, cooked when my mother was busy. Her hobby was housework. She followed her routines faithfully.

She also gave generously.

Even on a housekeeper’s salary, she would pay for things around the house—a new TV, a new sofa—without hesitation.

Even when she developed dementia, she never stopped caring for us.

When doctors told me she had a year left, part of me believed I was ready. That I knew how to grieve by now.

So I chose to go closer. I spent time with her. I let myself feel her love fully, and I released the guilt and attachment I might once have held.

When she passed—peacefully, surrounded by family—I still wasn’t ready to let her go.

But this time, something was different.

There were fewer regrets.

She died with dignity. Even in illness, she never stopped loving. And in that, she showed me what it means to have a good death.

What Grief Taught Me

Five losses in, I no longer believe grief is something you master.

Experience doesn’t make it smaller or more predictable. It teaches you how to show up—with more honesty, more courage, more love.

Grief doesn’t follow a schedule. It circles back when you least expect it—years later, in a scent, in a stranger, in a fleeting memory.

The goal was never to finish grieving.

It was to keep choosing love—even while grieving—and to let that be enough.

Are you going through something similar?

If this resonated with you, I'd love to have a conversation. I work with people navigating life's biggest transitions — divorce, loss, change, relationships, parenting, and health. Book a free 30-minute discovery call and let's talk about where you are and where you want to go.

Book a Free Call Learn More