Walking Wounded (and Still Here)

By Kim Brassor

One Voice Evolving: Raw. Real. Relatable.

A Holiday Note

Let me say this the way I wish someone had said it to me:

I see you. Because I am you.

I used to think loss by divorce was harder than loss by death. And in some ways, I still do. Not because the love was greater—but because the grace was smaller.

When someone dies, the world knows what to do. There are rituals. Meals dropped off. Cards. Permission to fall apart.

There’s a window where grief is expected—and protected.

But ambiguous loss?

Estrangement. No contact. Divorce. Addiction. Mental illness. Value divides. Relationships that end without ending?

There’s no roadmap for that.

No casseroles.

No bereavement leave.

No socially acceptable timeline.

And heaven help you if you try to name it out loud. Because instead of compassion, you often get the gasp. The quick intake of breath.

The look that says: That’s terrifying… what if it’s contagious?

So you learn to carry it quietly.

Ambiguous grief is what happens when someone is gone from your life, but not gone from the world. When there’s no closure, no final chapter, no ritual to mark the loss. The relationship is altered—or erased—while love, memory, and attachment just keep breathing.

Different stories.

Same ache.

And the holidays? They don’t help.

They are soaked in memory. Forty years of repetition. Songs your body remembers before your brain can catch up. Traditions that once had somewhere to land. Faces you still wish you could see.

So if this season feels tender, I want you to hear this from someone who gets it:

You are not failing at healing.

You are not doing grief wrong.

You are not “still stuck.”

You are walking wounded.

And walking wounded doesn’t mean broken.

It means you survived something without a script. It means you rebuilt a life alongside unanswered questions.

It means the scar still aches when the weather changes—and you keep going anyway.

There are no healing windows for ambiguous grief. No finish lines.

Just learning how to live with love that no longer has a place to land.

So this holiday season, lower the bar.

Celebrate quietly if you need to.

Step away from the noise.

Let joy come if it comes—and let tears pass through without making them mean more than they do.

And if someone looks at your story with fear instead of grace, remember this:

Your pain is not contagious.

Your honesty is not dangerous.

Your grief does not need to be hidden to be acceptable.

I see you. Because I am you.

And you are doing better than you think.

Holidays aren't always warm and fuzzy and that's okay. Sometimes you need to be prepared.

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