Layered grief is what happens when one loss sits on top of another—when old wounds are reopened by new pain, and the lines between them blur. It’s not just mourning one person. It’s mourning the parts of yourself that each loss took away.
Until this past week, I wasn’t familiar with the term. While some of the emotions and thoughts feel familiar, others are entirely new. Through therapy, I’ve come to understand what “layered grief” means, and now I can see it written all over my days. I knew pieces of Eric would resurface, but I wasn’t prepared for how deeply it would shake me.
Since Greg left, I’ve found myself struggling to look at photos of Eric. I almost can’t. It’s not because I don’t want to, or because the love or memories have faded. I believe my mind and body can only process one unbearable absence at a time. This new trauma has reactivated all the old pain, but it has also numbed parts of it. My system is overloaded. It feels like my grief has stacked itself in layers I can’t separate—one beneath the other, one heartbreak pressing into the next.
With Greg, the shock is still raw, still in motion. My body hasn’t yet caught up to the truth. But Eric’s loss was already scarred over—tender, but survivable—until now. Looking at him brings back the entire first collapse, and my heart can’t hold both at once. So, for now, I don’t look. Not because I’ve forgotten, but because I remember too much.
Reflection:
Layered grief isn’t just revisiting the past—it’s reliving it, all at once. The pain compounds, the memories intertwine, and healing becomes less about progress and more about endurance.
Mantra:
I am carrying more than one loss, and it’s okay if I can only hold one at a time.
Thanks for reading. –xxooC
Tell Me Something Good