Good grief! Processing my brush with loss (and probably grief)

Happy Friday, folks… or at least it was until you started reading this!

Once again, thank you for the lovely messages and feedback on the posts so far. It’s genuinely appreciated.

We’re back to the deep stuff this week—sorry! This one’s a bit of word vomit to help me process the last couple of weeks. It’s been strange: some fantastic highs, but also a tough time at work. Last week marked the final days with my amazing team—something that wasn’t by choice and, in my opinion, could have been avoided. It got me thinking about loss, and more broadly, grief. I know what you’re thinking: “Well, isn’t this a cheery subject?! Can you not go back to talking about running?!” It might seem like a dramatic leap, but stay with me…

A Bit of Background

I mentioned in a previous post that I’ve worked for the NHS for over 11 years. I’m not a trained clinician, so I won’t pretend I feel the full weight of the strain on the health service. But as a “senior manager” (we’re using that term very loosely), the role brings its own frustrations and stress.

Generally, I don’t do days off. Until November last year, I’d only missed half a day due to sickness—when I vomited into a bin. Even then, I tried to swap the shift before finally leaving the building. Toward the end of 2023, several personal challenges hit me in perfect sequence, making it hard to process anything properly. Historically, when life got tough, I threw myself into work—60 to 70 hours a week, even looking for extra work once mine was done.

Unfortunately, work wasn’t going well either. I started questioning the value I was bringing to the team and struggled to let go of projects I’d started, even when it was the right thing to do. Eventually, I hit burnout and had to make some significant changes.

The Team That Carried Me

When I made the decision to step back, the support I received from my team was unbelievable. I didn’t know what to expect—I’d never really been off sick before. But I felt genuine concern in their voices, and almost relief that I’d finally made the call. This team has always been incredible: intelligent, funny, caring… they even laughed at most of my terrible jokes. But this was something else. I couldn’t have handpicked a better group. I described them as the “All Blacks of Healthcare”—a nod to the New Zealand rugby team, arguably the greatest team to ever play a sport.

Sadly, as of 31st March, our team of ten was reduced to just me and a project officer. Due to delays in conversations between the organisation and the government, we couldn’t extend the contracts of the other eight. We had to part ways just as our work was gaining momentum. We knew it was coming from early March, and the emotional toll was heavy. The only thing I can compare it to is grief. And that got me thinking: was I right to grieve the loss of my team?

What Is Grief, Really?

I’ve experienced grief directly, but strangely, I’ve also felt it indirectly. I find grief is often a selfish emotion—not in a bad way, but in the sense that it’s about processing your own feelings of missing someone or something that’s no longer there. What’s surprised me is how I’ve been more affected by things I didn’t expect, and less affected by things I thought would break me.

Take my Nanna and Grandad, for example. I was close to both. My Grandad passed away when I was very young. I remember a conversation about whether I was too young to attend the funeral, but I told my Mam I wanted to go. He was an incredible man—a Distinguished Conduct Medal holder who saved hundreds of lives during WWII. As a kid, I hung on his every word. I held it together until a solitary piper played at his graveside. That moment broke me. Nearly 30 years later, I still remember it vividly.

In contrast, my reaction to my Nanna’s death was completely different. I was older, and arguably closer to her. I got the call while driving to a meeting at Kilmarnock Ambulance Station. I still went to the meeting. I was shocked, but not shocked. I knew I needed to be with my parents, but I figured sitting in traffic would make things worse, and work would distract me. I drove over after the meeting, grabbing clothes on the way. Even on the day of her funeral, I worked in the morning, attended the service, then went straight to a course. It was odd—even for me. I don’t think I’ve properly grieved her loss. In theory, it should have hit me hardest, but somehow, I accepted it more easily.

Second-Hand Grief

What I find even more bizarre is how deeply I’ve felt what I call “second-hand grief.” One example is my sister Wendy, who passed away on 1st September at just five years and seven months old, following a fall and head injury. Every August/September, my mental health dips. My sleep worsens, stress rises, and my mood drops. The strange part? Wendy died nearly a decade before I was born. But seeing how it’s affected my Mam and brother has caused me to grieve vicariously. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that—it comes from empathy and compassion for what they’ve endured.

Is There a Hierarchy of Grief?

So, where does that leave me after last week? Part of me says there’s a huge difference between losing a family member and losing a team of colleagues. But is there? There’s something called the “hierarchy of grief,” where we subconsciously assign value to losses and pressure ourselves to grieve in a certain way or for a certain length of time. For example, the death of a child is seen as more devastating than the death of an elderly grandparent. But there shouldn’t be hard rules about who or what you grieve—and you absolutely shouldn’t be judged for it.

Would it be wrong for me to grieve the death of my cat more than my biological father? I’ve seen my father once in my adult life. He’s a man with many demons who abandoned his family in horrific circumstances. If he passed away, should I grieve him more than my cat? My cat has been with me every day for 12 years and shown me nothing but affection. Or take last week’s example—my team, who supported me through one of the toughest periods of my life. I know which ones have had the greater impact.

Grief Is Normal—Let Yourself Feel It

In the last 4–5 years, we’ve survived a pandemic that took loved ones, livelihoods, and financial security. Businesses collapsed. Grief and its associated emotions are part of our lives now. It’s critical to recognise that grief is normal—and it’s okay to feel whatever you feel: anger, sadness, confusion. Let yourself process those emotions without judgment.

Studies like Zisook & Lyons (1990) show unresolved grief is linked to depression, alcohol abuse, and suicidality. Remembering is important—but continuing to live is more important.

Final Thoughts

Grief impacts your mental health. You need to express it to recover from it—however that looks for you. There’s no “right” way to grieve. Let yourself feel what you feel. Don’t suppress it, especially not because of what others might think. And if those feelings become too much, please seek support. There’s no shame in that. How you react is how you react.

Thanks for sticking with me. It means a lot.