Love That Hurts, But Still Heals.

 

Love That Hurts, But Still Heals.

Grief. Just reading that word feels heavy, doesn’t it? It’s one of those things that never knocks,  it just walks right in, rearranges your emotions, and dares you to make sense of it. Writing this piece has not been easy. Every time I sit down to talk about grief, my heart swells, and memories I thought I’d buried gently rise up and sit beside me.

I have lost many loved ones over the years. Each loss left a mark,  some gentle, others carved deep. I still remember it vividly,  2008, my grandmother’s funeral. I was young, confused, and utterly broken. But the moment that changed me forever wasn’t the wailing or the whispers of the mourners. It was seeing my grandfather cry. The man who had always been the pillar of strength in our family, suddenly small and fragile before our eyes. Fifty years of love, laughter, and partnership, gone.

After the funeral, he turned to me and asked softly, “Muzukuru, did you cry enough? If not, please do. And if you can’t, remember Psalms 34:18 , ‘The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.’

Those words stuck with me. They became my compass whenever I faced loss again. Because truthfully, grief is not a one-way road. It’s not a checklist. It’s a wave ,  sometimes gentle, sometimes so strong it knocks the air out of you.

We’ve all heard about the five stages of grief ,  denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But life, my friend, is rarely that neat. Sometimes you’re laughing one minute and sobbing the next. Sometimes you “accept” a loss but find yourself angry about it five years later. And that’s okay. Grief is messy, unpredictable, and deeply human.

Have you ever smiled while crying? That strange, confusing moment when pain and gratitude hold hands? Or cried without tears, the kind of sadness that settles quietly in your chest and refuses to leave? That’s grief too. It’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s silence that echoes.

In African society, grief is both personal and communal. We don’t mourn alone. We cry together, cook together, and tell stories under the night sky. Aunties gather, uncles sit in long silences, and neighbors bring food you never asked for but somehow need. There’s laughter between tears ,  because even in mourning, we celebrate life. That’s the beauty of African grief: it holds both the pain and the poetry.

But there’s also the side we don’t talk about , the pressure to “move on.” The quiet expectations to be strong, to not “cry too much.” Yet even Jesus wept (John 11:35). The shortest verse in the Bible, but one of the most powerful reminders that crying doesn’t mean you lack faith. It means you are human.

And perhaps that’s what grief teaches us most ,  humanity. It strips us bare, humbles us, and reminds us that love is the real reason we hurt. Because you cannot grieve what you did not love.

When I think of grief now, I don’t see it as an ending. I see it as an echo ,  proof that love existed, that memories mattered, that life was shared. And maybe, just maybe, it’s God’s way of teaching us to breathe again ,  slower, deeper, with more gratitude.

So, if you’re grieving ,  whether it’s a person, a season, a dream, or even a version of yourself ,  know this: you are not alone. Cry if you must. Laugh if you can. Remember Psalms 147:3: “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

And when you’re ready, get up, fix yourself a warm cup of tea (or mazowe if you’re feeling nostalgic), look up at the sky, and whisper, “Thank You for the love that made this grief possible.”

Because even in our tears, there is grace.

Even in our mourning, there is meaning.

And one day, we’ll realize grief doesn’t end ,  it simply teaches us how to love differently.