Grief, Loss, and the Days You Do Not Want to Be Here: A Therapist's Honest Letter
This is the fourth and final piece in my September Suicide Prevention Month series. And I want to write it a little differently from the others. Less clinical! More direct! Because if you have been reading along this month, or if you have arrived at this piece on a difficult day, I want to speak to you specifically. Not to professionals. Not to families trying to help. To you. The person who might be reading this because some part of today is harder than you have let anyone know.
What Grief Can Do That Nobody Prepares You For
I have written about grief throughout this newsletter series and in my practice for eighteen years. And one of the things I have learned is that grief, when it is very heavy and very sustained, can do something to a person that nobody prepares them for.
It can make them wonder whether they want to keep going.
Not in an active, planned way. Not necessarily. But in the quiet way that grief can erode a person's sense of purpose. That can make the future feel like something that belongs to other people. That can make the idea of continuing to carry all of this feel less possible than it did before.
I am writing this because that experience is more common than anyone admits. And the shame around it, the sense that you should be grieving and healing and finding your way back rather than wondering whether you want to, can be devastating on top of the grief itself.
So I want to say this clearly: if grief has ever taken you to that place, you are not weak. You are not broken. You are a human being who has loved deeply and lost profoundly and who is carrying more than one person was designed to carry alone.
"Grief is not weakness. And needing help carrying it is not weakness either. Both are evidence of how deeply you have loved."
What I Know About the People Who Have Told Me This
Over the years, I have sat with many clients who have told me about the days, sometimes very recent days, when they did not want to be here. When the grief felt like it had become a weight rather than an experience. When continuing felt like too much to ask.
Almost universally, what these clients tell me later is that they are glad they stayed. Not because everything resolved or became easier quickly. It did not. But because with the right support, the weight became something they could live with rather than something that had to end.
That is what I want for you. Not a promise that the grief goes away. It changes shape over time but it does not fully disappear, and I am not going to pretend otherwise. But the possibility that the weight becomes manageable. That you are not carrying it alone. That there is a space, and a person, capable of holding it with you.
For South Asian, Immigrant, and Brown Communities
I want to name this part specifically because the grief I am describing carries an extra layer in communities shaped by the expectation of endurance.
In many South Asian and immigrant households, to admit that grief has brought you to a dark place is to risk something significant: the family's reputation, the community's perception, the narrative of resilience that has kept everything together. The question what would people say is not abstract. It has real social weight.
And underneath all of that is sometimes a belief that your pain is not allowed to be this large. That others have sacrificed more. That you should be grateful. That this level of struggle is an indulgence you cannot afford.
I want to speak directly to that belief: your pain is not an indulgence. Your life is not a debt you owe to the sacrifice that came before you. You are allowed to need support. And the people who came before you, the ones who sacrificed everything, would not want this to be the cost.
"Your life is not a debt you owe to the sacrifice that came before you. You are allowed to ask for help protecting it."
What to Do When You Are in That Place
Tell one person
Not the whole story. Not all at once. One honest sentence to one person you trust. I have been struggling more than I have been showing. I am not okay right now. Today has been very hard. That sentence, offered to one safe person, can begin to shift the weight.
Call or text 988
The Suicide and Crisis Lifeline is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. You do not have to be in immediate danger to call. You are allowed to call simply because you are having a hard time and you need someone to talk to. The call is free and confidential.
Reach out to a therapist this week
Not someday. This week. You do not have to explain everything in the first message. You do not have to have the right words. You just have to send it. One message. That is the beginning.
Give yourself permission to not be okay today
The expectation that grief should be productive, that you should be healing at a visible pace, that you should be finding your way back by now, is one of the cruelest things our culture imposes on people who are grieving. You are allowed to be exactly where you are today. And being where you are does not have to mean staying there.
A Closing Word for the Whole Month
We have covered a lot of ground in September. The quiet suicidal thinking that hides behind high functioning. The emotional isolation that nobody sees. The words that open doors and the words that close them. And today, the grief that becomes a weight too heavy to carry alone.
Everything I write in this newsletter series is pointing toward the same belief: that your inner life matters, that you deserve support commensurate with what you are actually carrying, and that healing, real healing, is possible when you are not trying to do it alone.
If this month has opened something for you, I hope you will reach out. You can contact me directly. You can call 988. You can tell one person who loves you the true thing about how you are doing.
Any of those is the right place to start.
Your life is worth the call.
If you or someone you love is in crisis right now, please call or text 988 (Suicide and Crisis Lifeline), available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Free and confidential.
About the Author
Ashma Hakani, LCSW-S is a licensed clinical social worker and the founder of Renewed Hope Therapy, PLLC. She specializes in grief, trauma, anxiety, and relationship issues, providing compassionate, culturally competent, and trauma-informed care. With over 18 years of experience, she utilizes evidence-based approaches to support her clients in building resilience and coping skills. Ashma also offers clinical supervision and mental health education to individuals and communities. Her work is rooted in the belief that healing is a journey, and she is dedicated to walking alongside her clients every step of the way.
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