My grandmother passed away on a Tuesday afternoon. I remember the day because I had a meeting at 3 and I almost didn't pick up the phone. When my mother's voice cracked on the other end, the meeting stopped mattering. Everything stopped mattering for a while.

I'm telling you this because if you're reading this, you've probably lost someone too. And I want you to know that whatever you're feeling right now, it's okay. Even if what you're feeling is nothing at all. Even if what you're feeling doesn't make sense.

Grief doesn't follow the rules

People talk about the "stages of grief" like it's a checklist. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Neat. Tidy. Linear. Except that's not how it actually works for most people. You might feel angry on Monday, numb on Wednesday, and then laugh at a memory on Thursday and immediately feel guilty for laughing. That's not wrong. That's grief.

In India especially, there's this expectation that you'll be strong. That you'll handle things. The rituals, the visitors, the relatives who need chai, the phone calls that don't stop. You become the person who manages the logistics of someone's death, and nobody asks how you're doing because everyone assumes the busy ones are coping fine.

They're usually not.

The things nobody tells you

Nobody tells you that grief hits you at random moments. You're buying vegetables and you see the karela that your father used to insist on every week, and suddenly you can't breathe. You're scrolling through your phone and a photo from two Diwalis ago shows up, and the whole evening is gone.

Nobody tells you that some days feel completely normal, and then you feel terrible for having a normal day. Like you've betrayed them by not being sad enough.

Nobody tells you that anger is part of it. You might feel angry at the person for leaving. At the doctors. At God. At the relative who said something thoughtless at the funeral. That anger is not a character flaw. It's your heart trying to make sense of something that doesn't make sense.

What actually helps

Let people in, even one person. You don't have to talk to everyone. You don't have to share with the whole family WhatsApp group. But find one person, just one, who can sit with you without trying to fix things. Someone who won't say "they're in a better place" and will instead just say "I'm here."

Don't rush the rituals away. In our culture, the thirteenth day ceremonies, the monthly prayers, the annual remembrances, they exist for a reason. They give grief a structure when everything else feels shapeless. You don't have to believe in every ritual to benefit from the rhythm of them.

Write a letter. This sounds strange, but it works. Write a letter to the person you've lost. Tell them what you wish you'd said. Tell them what's happened since they left. Tell them you're angry, or sad, or that you miss their dal. You don't have to show it to anyone. The writing is for you.

Eat properly. Grief does strange things to appetite. Some people stop eating. Others can't stop. Neither is something to judge yourself for, but try to eat at least two proper meals a day. Your body is carrying something heavy, and it needs fuel.

Give yourself permission to feel good. The first time you genuinely laugh after a loss, you might feel a wave of guilt. As if being happy means you've forgotten them. You haven't. Joy and grief can live in the same house. They do, actually, most of the time.

There's no timeline

People will say things like "it's been six months, you should be feeling better by now." Ignore that. Grief doesn't have an expiry date. Some losses you carry for the rest of your life, and that's okay. It doesn't mean you're stuck. It means the person mattered.

What does change, slowly, is the weight. It doesn't disappear. It gets lighter. Not because you forget, but because you learn to carry it differently. And one day, maybe months from now, you'll think of them and smile before you cry. That's not moving on. That's moving forward, and they come with you.