How the Grinch Stole Grief

What I lost, what I still carry, and what finally softened me

I used to think grief was about people, and sometimes it is. But what I’ve learned grief is really about attachment. It’s what happens when something that once helped me feel okay in the world is suddenly gone. Sometimes that something is a person. Other times, it’s quieter. Easier to dismiss and harder to explain. It could be a place, a routine, or a belief I didn’t even realize I was leaning on. A version of myself that once felt safer to be. I’ve grieved things I felt embarrassed admitting out loud. Things I told myself, “Shouldn’t count.” But my body didn’t care about should(s). It felt the loss anyway.

I’ve grieved:

• a car that carried me through an entire era of my life

• a body that used to feel familiar

• a dream I quietly outgrew before I was ready to let it go

• relationships that changed without officially ending

• a sense of safety and identity I didn’t realize I depended on

• even a feeling I once had and can’t get back

Grief doesn’t respond to logic; it responds to attachment.

The things that held me

Let me tell you about my Jeep. His name was George. He wasn’t “just a car.” He was freedom, reliability, and a memory. He showed up for me when I needed him. He carried me and the people I loved through years that weren’t always easy. In 2016, I sold him because I was having twins. On the surface, it made sense. Practical. Necessary. But what I was losing was a chapter of my life. A version of myself that existed before everything changed. A few months later, I lost the twins too. That was the hardest chapter of my life. And that’s when I finally understood what grief really is. It’s the nervous system whispering, something that helped me feel okay in the world is no longer here.

Not just once.Repeatedly.

There is no hierarchy here

Grief isn’t neat and it doesn’t ask permission. There’s no ranking system or comparison chart. No invisible grief court deciding what’s “worthy” of sorrow. My body [mostly my heart] decides that for me.

So yes, I grieve my children.

And yes, I grieve my Jeep.And the life I thought I was stepping into.And the version of myself who believed certain things were guaranteed.

I grieve the time when the world felt safer than it does now.

We say grief is love with nowhere to go. Sometimes that love is for a person. And sometimes it’s for a damn good car that carried you through hell and never asked anything in return. Both can be true. They are true.

How the Grinch makes sense to me now

I don’t think the Grinch was cruel, and I don’t think he was broken. I think he was sad. He didn’t wake up one day and choose to be cold. He was a baby once. He had a heart from the start. It didn’t disappear; it learned how to protect itself.When someone is repeatedly misunderstood, mocked, overwhelmed, or rejected, the nervous system doesn’t learn malice. It learns survival. Withdrawal becomes safety and distance becomes medicine. That’s not villainy. That’s adaptation. I know that armor and I’ve worn it.

Sadness gets mislabeled as anger all the time. Over time, sadness learns to hide behind sarcasm or sharp edges because exposed sadness gets hurt again. So, it pretends not to care, but the heart never actually goes away.

It still grieves belonging.It still grieves safety.It still grieves the version of itself that once hoped without flinching.

The grief no one sees

Some grief doesn’t announce itself. There’s no funeral, no casseroles, no moment where everyone agrees something has been lost. It more like an absence. There were times I didn’t even realize I was grieving because nothing “obvious” had died. But my body knew. It felt off, heavy, tired in a way sleep didn’t fix.

I’ve learned that we grieve the things that held us when we didn’t yet know how to hold ourselves (objects, routines, beliefs, places) versions of us that existed during hard years. They regulated me, they shaped my days., and they whispered, You’re okay right now. And when they disappeared, the sadness that followed wasn’t weakness. It was proof that something mattered.

Love, loss, and opting out

There are sober alcoholics and drug-free addicts, there are people who put down the substance but still wrestle with the wiring. Love can be like that too. When love wounds you, overwhelms you, abandons you, or feels conditional, the brain quietly decides never again. Not because love is bad, but because the cost was too high. The Grinch didn’t hate love. He hated what chaotic, performative, unpredictable love felt like, so he opted out. I understand that choice more than I wish I did. What changed him wasn’t shame or punishment. It was safety. One being who didn’t demand, mock, or overwhelm. Someone who showed up differently. That didn’t erase the past, but it gave his nervous system new information.

He wasn’t fixed.He was finally seen.

What helps

Grief doesn’t need to be rushed, corrected or wrapped up in a silver lining. It needs to be witnessed. When someone sees your sadness without trying to make it go away, something softens. Not all at once. Just enough to breathe again. I’ve learned that people don’t always need answers.

They need presence.They need space.They need someone willing to sit with the ache without trying to make it prettier.

What I know now

Grief is the experience of losing an attachment, something beloved that once helped us survive.

Sometimes that attachment is a person.Sometimes it’s:

• the car that carried you through chaos

• the habit that structured your days

• the belief that kept you going

• the version of yourself that once felt more whole

When these things disappear, we aren’t grieving the thing itself. We’re grieving what it gave us comfort, safety, consistency, identity, hope. Grief is what happens when something that once held us is no longer there to do so. And if you’re grieving, it means something mattered. It means something shaped you.It means you loved.