In August 2010, I lost one of my closest friends, Tayo, just days after we left NYSC orientation camp in Nsit Atai, Akwa Ibom. We had been classmates at university, even graduating side by side in the rankings. Then we got our NYSC call-up and found out that we had been posted to serve in the same state. That just added fire to an inside joke we had in our first year: “Why are you always following me around?”
We first met in our very first year as undergraduates, and a few months into our first semester, we discovered we lived in the same neighbourhood back home. I still remember us bumping into each other at Berger Bus Stop after a clash on campus forced everyone to return home. From that moment on, life seemed determined to keep us close.
After camp, we both travelled back to prepare for our primary assignments. I returned to Lagos, and he went to Abuja to visit his brother. Free midnight calls were still a thing back then. One night, he mentioned he wasn’t feeling too well but laughed it off. By the next morning, another friend called to say he was gone.
I couldn’t make sense of it. He was young, full of life, right at the edge of his prime. For months, I lived in denial. I would think to myself, “He’s just away on a trip. Any day now, he’ll call.” I had nights where I’d wake up feeling like I’d just come off a midnight call session, like we’ve been doing since our first year. Coming to terms with the fact that I’d never hear his voice again was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
I expected we’d grow old together, look for jobs, chase dreams, even meet babes and fall in love. When he died, I felt sadness, anger, and even abandonment. But on top of all that, I felt something else: like my grief was somehow wrong. Losing a close friend was devastating, but people didn’t treat you like you were going through something monumental. I caught myself wondering: “Why does this hurt me so much? Is there something wrong with the way I’m grieving?”
But here’s what I’ve learned since then: there is no “wrong” way to grieve.
Grief Is Messy
Grief doesn’t follow rules or stages. For years, we leaned on Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance), but I’ve since found that it’s not neat or linear. One day you’re okay, the next day you’re crying in the kitchen at midnight, holding a bottle of water. That’s normal.
Grief researchers now agree that the process is far more chaotic. Rather than neat stages, the Center for Complicated Grief identifies two broad phases: the acute phase, when everything feels raw and unbearable, and the integrated phase, when the loss becomes part of your life without completely overwhelming it.
But the truth is, even years later, you can find yourself back in the middle of it. Grief softens with time, but it doesn’t vanish.
If your pain doesn’t seem to soften at all, or if it feels like it’s only getting heavier, that may be what’s called “complicated grief.” And that’s not a weakness; it’s something that can happen to any of us. It can also be helped.
Grief Lives in the Body Too
When I pushed grief aside to “be strong” or keep busy, my body reminded me. Headaches. Fatigue. Loss of appetite. Sleepless nights. Grief isn’t just emotional, it’s physical. If we don’t give it space, our bodies carry it for us, often in painful ways.
That’s why taking care of yourself – body and soul – matters more than ever when you’re grieving.
What Helped Me (and Might Help Someone Else)
- Start small. Eating a good meal, drinking water, or simply getting out of bed; these small acts are victories when you’re grieving. Don’t dismiss them.
- Listen to your body. Grief sits in the chest, the shoulders, the stomach. Try deep breathing, humming, stretching, or even short walks to release some of the weight.
- Move gently. You may not feel like exercising, but light movement, such as yoga, walking, or stretching, can help your body release tension.
- Talk to someone. Whether it’s a therapist, a friend, or a trusted colleague, talking about your loss can help you cope with it better.
Grief doesn’t have an expiry date. I’m 15 years out from my first loss, and I’ve lost other loved ones since then, but I still carry it. The difference is that with time, it has shifted from something crushing to something I can live with.
Grief changes you. But it also reminds you of the depth of love, friendship, and connection. And in remembering those we’ve lost, we carry them forward with us, in our memories, in our laughter, in the way we choose to live.
After all, what is grief, if not love persevering?
