In a world obsessed with success, milestones, and constant forward momentum, the experience of loss can feel like a silent and isolating abnormality. We are often taught to "get over it" and "put on a brave face" to keep up with the pace of life. But what happens to the quiet aches that don’t fit neatly into a world built on progress? What if, instead of being a roadblock, grief offered a difficult but profoundly human path to growth?
In this deeply personal story, Brian shares his transformative journey through profound personal loss. He reveals how the very nature of loss is interwoven into the core fabric of the human experience, and he invites you to explore this understanding through his own journey of therapy, research, and reflection.
Through Grief We Grow is a companion for those on a similar path—an invitation to find your own voice, embrace vulnerability, and discover that resilience isn't about moving on, but about finding a new way to live and transform.
In a world obsessed with success, milestones, and constant forward momentum, the experience of loss can feel like a silent and isolating abnormality. We are often taught to "get over it" and "put on a brave face" to keep up with the pace of life. But what happens to the quiet aches that don’t fit neatly into a world built on progress? What if, instead of being a roadblock, grief offered a difficult but profoundly human path to growth?
In this deeply personal story, Brian shares his transformative journey through profound personal loss. He reveals how the very nature of loss is interwoven into the core fabric of the human experience, and he invites you to explore this understanding through his own journey of therapy, research, and reflection.
Through Grief We Grow is a companion for those on a similar path—an invitation to find your own voice, embrace vulnerability, and discover that resilience isn't about moving on, but about finding a new way to live and transform.
The lobby was stark, and its plainness was almost aggressive. It wasn't the sophisticated medical clinic one might expect. Instead, a generic waiting room — small, taupe-walled, lit by an unforgiving hum of fluorescent lights, which left it feeling less like a place of healing and more like an impersonal transition zone.
The room was quiet, devoid of television or background music. Just a handful of uncomfortable chairs and a desk where a receptionist sat; which one would assume to be where to go upon arrival.
The receptionist, efficient but impersonal, acknowledged my approach with a brief nod and her gaze fixed on her screen. Her keyboard clicks were the only sound breaking the silence, a rhythmic, unsettling counterpoint to the room's stark, cold, and unwelcoming ambiance. It felt less like a greeting and more like a transaction already in progress.
“That will be $140,” she stated flatly, her voice lacking inflection, betraying no hint of sympathy for the unexpected pre-payment. The abruptness of the demand caught me off guard, with a sudden wave of disbelief washing over me. A "what the hell?" look surely plastered itself across my face.
Paying before a consultation? It felt utterly bizarre, ludicrous even. My mind raced: What if the service was incompetent? What if the experience was dreadful? The thought of pre-paying for substandard care left a sour, metallic taste in my mouth. Was this typical? How was I to know? I'd never received this type of service before. Was I alone in thinking this was odd?
The receptionist's expression remained unchanged, offering no explanation or sign of empathy for my confusion. Resigned, I mumbled my agreement. “Mastercard please,” I replied, feeling foolishly compliant as I produced my card.
She processed the payment with the same unsmiling efficiency, handing me a receipt that felt more like a prison sentence than a confirmation. “You can have a seat. We’ll call you when she's ready,” she said, her tone leaving no room for conversation or further questions.
I retreated to a chair. They were all the same: standard plastic office chairs with no padding or intent to offer comfort. I glanced at my phone and noticed the time: 5:55 PM. Great! I thought. Only five minutes until my appointment. I stared blankly at the empty walls. The silence was broken only by the receptionist's ongoing keyboard clicks in this seemingly lifeless waiting room.
At around 6:05 PM, a muted click announced the opening of an office door down a corridor connected to the lobby. A youthful woman emerged, her presence immediately captivating my attention as she advanced toward the reception area where I waited.
"Brian?" she queried, her voice tinged with a pleasant uncertainty. I responded with a nod, rising to meet her gaze. Together, we retraced her steps, heading back to the office she had just left.
As I stepped in, I noticed a small sofa, enough to sit two people, another sofa chair for a single person, and a regular office chair. I assumed she would be sitting in the office chair. So, I chose the small sofa, leaving room for her to sit next to me if she wanted to (or needed to), or for me to stretch out or lie down if that was part of the protocol later. I really wasn’t too sure what to expect; this was all new to me and felt a bit foreign.
“Welcome again,” she stated, “my name is Laura, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her smile was warm, and her initial greeting welcoming, yet her eyes held a hint of professional detachment.
“Hi Laura, nice to meet you as well,” I responded. My voice felt a little shaky, betraying my nervousness, which I was sure she could detect.
“So, I see that you were referred here by a doctor you saw at the walk-in clinic not too long ago, is that correct?” she questioned. Her query felt more like a formal interrogation, despite her friendly demeanor. The clinic's referral seemed insignificant now — just a step in the process to get here, not the reason we were here.
“Yes, that’s accurate. I asked for the referral,” I responded.
“Great! Have you ever seen a therapist before?” she asked. This time, her question felt less like curiosity and more like another hurdle, another layer of interrogation. Was she gauging my awareness of therapy, or perhaps assessing how much effort she’d need to expend to justify the $140 I’d already paid? My throat tightened.
“No, I have not. This is my first time, so it is all new to me and has me feeling a bit awkward, if I am being honest,” I shared. My unfamiliarity with the situation left me undeniably uncomfortable, I confessed. The admission hung heavy in the air, but offered her an opportunity, like an opened door, to step through to warm up the conversation.
Her reaction was immediate and disarming: “No problem! It’s totally normal for you to feel that on your first visit. First-time jitters are perfectly natural. Things will warm up as we get to know each other better, I can assure you,” she responded. Now feeling less interrogatory, her response provided a sense of comfort. Her initial warmth, kindness, and genuine friendliness started dissolving my unease and fostering an early sense of trust as our conversation unfolded.
“So, why don’t you tell me a bit about why you asked the walk-in doctor for a referral? What is going on?” Her voice, though gentle, felt like a spotlight, exposing the cracks underneath my seemingly normal facade.
Yikes! Okay, here we go. My stomach clenched, a cold knot of dread tightening with each breath. No more small talk. This was it. We were jumping into the deep end. I remember feeling a terrifying sense of release washing over me as I started to speak, like a dam of suppressed emotion threatening to burst. The prepaid time now felt less like a financial transaction and more like a precious, finite resource I couldn't afford to waste. Time’s ticking…so let’s get the process started!
“Well,” I began, my voice a tremor at first, “Lately, I’ve been feeling quite… overwhelmed. I guess, overwhelmed and stressed. Yeah, and probably a bit anxious too. I’m thinking I might be on the cusp of a burnout.” The words tasted like ash in my mouth. "There’s just been a lot of juggling lately between work and life. And, I think it has been feeling less like juggling, and more like a frantic, desperate attempt to keep a thousand spinning plates from shattering on the floor.” My carefully cultivated composure began to fray. “Handling pressure isn’t new to me. I’d say I usually handle it quite well. My job is very demanding because there’s always deadlines and high expectations. But the last few months have been different. I’ve taken on additional responsibilities at home: my mother.” The admission felt raw and vulnerable, exposing a wound that I hadn’t allowed myself to fully examine, let alone say out loud before. "I think this is what has pushed me to the edge and it’s what is bringing me to feel like I am burning out.” Her eyes held a quiet empathy, a space for the storm brewing inside me.
"Family caregiver responsibilities are a tough one for sure," she acknowledged softly. "Do you mind sharing what that’s been like?” The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken pain. I closed my eyes, momentarily lost in the torrent of memories.
"She moved in about nine months ago," I whispered, the words catching on a sob I fought to suppress. "I'm from a small town in Northern Ontario, and that's where she lived before. Her health, well it was worsening. Her co-habitation situation, well it was abusive and unstable. So, she asked for help, I offered, and she came to live with me." A wave of bitter exhaustion washed over me.
"It’s been… a brutal nine months. A relentless cycle of doctor appointments, tests, consultations, endless discussions with specialists, support workers coming and going, disrupting everything and invading my privacy. There’s a constant worry etched on her face and mirrored in my own. I’m now having to cook for two, clean for two, always consider her in the deliberation of my decisions or actions, etc… I not only have to tend to my own needs but I’m also having to cater to hers. The weight of it all… it’s suffocating.” My voice cracked. “A few weeks ago, she moved into a long-term care facility. It was too much having her live with me. Too much for me to handle on my own; especially with my busy and demanding career.” The confession ended in a ragged breath, the unspoken truth hanging heavy: I failed.
“That does sound like a lot for such a short period of time. How do you feel about her moving into a long-term care home?”
I paused, a complex mix of emotions swirling within me. Which one to start with? So many feelings that I could just ramble off, but what value would that bring? I took a breath, trying to focus specifically on her moving out. How did I feel about that specifically? Well, I knew part of me felt relieved because I finally had my personal space back. I knew part of me felt concerned regarding whether she would be properly cared for in the home. I knew part of me felt confused about how we got to this stage so quickly, considering she was living on her own not that long ago, and how this was happening to her at such a young age of fifty-seven. Did I accelerate the process? And I knew I also felt angry that she let herself get to this point. I certainly know that I never would have let this happen to myself – or at least not let it go this way. But relief, concern, confusion, and anger were not the strongest feelings coming through in that moment. There was something else. Something more prominent. Something I could feel was there for a while but that I knew that I had never quite labeled or spoken out loud before. And then it just came out.
“Guilty.” I heavily and suddenly responded, as if not even having taken the time to reflect on whether it was the correct emotion or not. As the word left my lips, so did a soft sigh and I could feel my eyes starting to water.
“Oh...why is that?” she questioned.
“Cause, I didn’t really give her a choice. I told her she couldn’t continue to live with me. I forced her into a home. And it’s not a good one, if I am to be frank. What kind of son does that to the mother who gave birth to you? After visiting the home during the selection process, she even broke down in tears crying, telling me she did not want to go. And I still told her she didn't have a choice and could not continue to live with me because I was unable to cope with it any longer. So yeah… guilty is the best word I have for that.”
“Do you mind sharing with me what health problems your mother has?” she asked.
“I don’t mind, but it’s not an easy explanation or a singular problem in nature. My mother has been ill for a very long time. Probably since I was around eight or ten years old. I remember odd symptoms as a child where she was easily agitated and angered, to weird things like having burning sensations in her mouth, sore wrists and elbows, to feeling chronically tired and sleeping a lot, to telling me she was hurting all over and in physical pain all the time. She often said she was sick, but the sickness was always hard to label, describe, and comprehend. However things started, I am not too sure. My personal opinion is that she struggled with some mental health issues like depression, anxiety, postpartum, or PTSD maybe... and not knowing how to deal with it back then, she sought out the help of her family doctor. This led to the start of her dependency on pharmaceuticals. And over time, they did not help. After prolonged use, she developed other symptoms and side effects, and that led to more prescriptions and medications. Eventually, her situation and mental struggles turned into physical pain which led to even more pharmaceuticals. Painkillers, as strong as opiates, were prescribed and an assortment of other medications to try to help her manage the pain or the various other ailments that surfaced over time. She has a lengthy list of fifteen or more medications today, ranging anywhere from anti-anxiety to anti-nausea, to anti-psychotics, to opiates, to sleeping aids, etc. That's basically been the case for many, many years and a prominent memory of my childhood. It's quite difficult to recall a point in time where my mother was not constantly taking various pills for a range of conditions. At some point in the early 2000s, she received an official diagnosis of Fibromyalgia and that’s where things just became “the norm.” She filed and fought for disability and started to organize around a diet of medications, a life of staying at home, a system of depending on others for almost everything, and a constant battle with her health demons in somewhat isolation."
“Wow, that does sound like a very unfortunate story, both for her and for you at such a young age," she responded.
“Yes, lately you hear a lot about the prescribed opiate crisis in both the US and Canada, and the pressure on big pharma and doctors to stop prescribing them. I can’t help but think my mother is a perfect case study of this story. She was never diagnosed with any physical trauma or terminal illness, yet she’s on such high doses of medication that it makes her like a walking zombie. The irony is a bitter pill to swallow, and her story is one that I’ve often held shame for when sharing with others."
“Yes, we are all hearing quite a lot about the opiate epidemic and how it’s affecting the lives of so many people. I can see how you might correlate some similarities there,” she commented. “Do you have any siblings? And where was your father in all of this?”
“I do have a younger sister. She is five years younger than me. She still lives in northern Ontario. She helps a lot where she can, and my mother called on her quite a bit when she was up there. My sister moved out a while back as she needed to create space between herself and the mom-situation to keep her own sanity, just like I did when I moved to Toronto. Part of me also feels guilty for leaving my sister alone up north to deal with our complicated mother. It was a given that the support I was providing before leaving, although quite different back then, would worsen over time and start falling onto my sister when I left. My father, well my parents are divorced, so he isn’t in the picture when it comes to her care, but he is close to my sister and I. They separated around the time when I was ten or so. Maybe that was part of the circumstances to her challenges with recovery back then. I am not too sure.”
“I see. And your mother, does she have any siblings?” she asked.
“Yes, her family is quite big. They are eight children in total. Well, seven now since one of them has passed away already. They have some dysfunctions in the family, and they aren’t really that close to each other. There’s a couple of them that are closer to my mother than the others. She’s relied on them for various things quite a fair amount throughout time. At many points, I even remember finding that reliance a bit too much; too dependent, and I noticed when they distanced themselves for a bit of reprieve. Eventually, they would come back into the picture here and there. I remember some of the distancing that would happen between them would usually be because of an argument. Often times, the arguments were related to an element of this dependency, as if my mother expected something from them, or she was upset they did not help her during a given situation, or they did something that was opposite to providing her with help and this would set her off. She has one sister who is local here in the Toronto area; she visits every week or so and tries to help me where she can. I appreciate her a lot for this. I’d be struggling a lot more if it were not for her.”
“That certainly is a large family,” she commented, and then proceeded to switch topics, “What do you do for work, Brian?”
“I work in Technology. Telecommunications to be specific. I have a technical background, something similar to engineering. Today, I am the manager of a group of engineering and operations people that work on telecom services like wireless or television,” I responded.
“Oh, that’s neat. You must be quite busy at work then, and by the sounds of your role, you have others at work who also depend on you for leadership, decisions, and direction,” she remarked. At this point, I started to see what she was doing. As I was busy rambling off with my stories and responses, she was slowly painting the picture of my environment, my support systems, the people that surrounded me, the forces of pressure in my environment, etc.… all this certainly key in seeing the forest through the trees.
“Yeah, that’s correct, work is quite hectic these days and there’s a lot on my plate. But to be honest, it’s kind of been a bit of my escape in all of this. Like when I go into the office, I can compartmentalize and forget about all the chaos at home and just try to focus on work. It doesn’t always play out that way because my mom messages me pretty much every day and asks for things, or I have to buzz in various nurses or personal support workers with my cell phone through my lobby to go attend to her, but it still offers me a sort of reprieve. A bit odd that, to escape one stressful situation, I have to isolate myself into another one. But it does still give me a feeling of escape.”
“Totally, I get that. And it’s actually more common than you would think. Not necessarily the healthiest of ways to cope with the stress, but definitely the more common one as everyone is juggling life circumstances with work obligations and the various situations of tug-of-war that come up with that balance,” she commented, which provided a sense of affirmation with what I was describing. “Is there anything else that you do to help de-stress?”
“Before all of this, I played quite a bit of volleyball, dodgeball, and did various other activities with my friends. But it has become difficult to find time of my own with her living with me now. I’ve had to stop dodgeball and reduce the other activities so that I can make sure I get home immediately after work to support, check-in, make sure everything is okay, and so on. So, I really just have one night of volleyball per week at the moment where I am allowing myself to disconnect and de-stress. I really enjoy those nights quite a bit,” I explained.
“Time to recharge as a caregiver is quite important,” she responded. “Are you visiting her often now that she is in a long-term care home?”
“At the moment, around two to three times a week since it’s all new and she’s still settling in and having adjustment challenges,” I responded.
“And how do those visits go when you’re there?” she asked.
The sound of a deep sigh echoed in the room as I took a deep breath to prepare for the next series of sharing. “She complains about many things and asks for a variety of favors. Most of the conversations are focused on her needs and how to make things better for her,” I summarized broadly.
“I see. And how do you feel when you’re visiting her?” she queried further, knowing that we had to go deeper in this area to expose a bit more.
Mentally, I tried to replay the last few visits in my head. I tried to remember how they went, what the conversations were about, how those conversations made me feel, and how I felt when I first arrived versus how I felt when I left at the end of the visit. My thoughts were all over the place. My eyes were teary as my memory recalls were also bringing to surface the various emotions experienced in those moments. This time, I struggled to focus on a single emotion about how I felt when visiting her. Instead, multiple came out in words in no particular priority or sequence.
“Exhausted. Frustrated. Irritated. Annoyed. It’s not typically positive feelings, to be honest. I can't really recall a time where I left the nursing home feeling great about our visit and looking forward to coming back," I finally responded, “and I feel ashamed of that,” I admitted with a deep sense of dishonor.
“Go on,” she said simply, as if knowing the nerve was hit and more needed to be said.
"I usually leave feeling profoundly disappointed. I don't show up as the son I want to be. I grow impatient when the conversation inevitably circles back to her needs and demands, and my responses become short, blunt, and sharp. When I finally leave, a part of me feels immense relief, quickly followed by the familiar pang of guilt for leaving her there. I feel terrible about our conversations, about how I showed up for them. Then the anxiety and stress set in about the endless list of problems she's just unloaded on me, leaving me confused about which to address and which to let go. Driving away, the guilt returns, a heavy weight, as if I'm leaving her in the rear-view mirror — out of sight, out of mind."
At this time, tears were visibly running down my face as I attempted to articulate the play-by-play that happened and the various emotions that would come and go through the experience. It was obvious to her the distress I was feeling, so she handed me the box of tissues sitting next to her so I could wipe my tears and blow my nose.
“That's certainly a lot of different thoughts and emotions all coming up at once and hitting you from all sides,” she said calmly. “Definitely not the ideal or positive experience anyone would want when they go in to visit a loved one in a care home,” she added.
“Let me ask you,” she said, “do you have any thoughts why the experience is so hard and negative for you? When you're on your way to visit her, what type of visit are you hoping to get or look forward to?” she asked.
“I think it’s because I hope to spend quality time with her, but there’s no quality in the time,” I responded. “Most of the conversations always go back to how the nurses are bad, the home sucks, she doesn’t like being there, she isn’t getting her medications on time, or she doesn’t like being ill and unable to live a healthy life, etc.… And then it goes into what she needs, like what I should bring her, or what she wants to order online, or can I help her with this or that, etc.…,” I elaborated.
“It sounds like despite being in the nursing facility, the responsibilities of being the caregiver continue when you visit her. You go in there hoping to be present as a son visiting his mother for quality time, and you're still having to show up as the caregiver. The son hardly gets any time of his own," she commented.
“Yup. That sounds about right,” I confirmed.
“Let’s go back to something you said earlier,” she suggested, “around her falling ill many years ago; somewhere around the age of eight or ten for you. Back then, as a child, living at home, what was your relationship like with your mother?”
“Turbulent? There were different phases of it, I would say. The phases depended on my age, her relationship status, and whether or not I was in my rebellious stage. But generally, ever since my parents split up, there was this dependency created on me. I’d regularly have a list of things to go buy at the grocery store, or a list of chores to do in the yard and around the house, be tasked upon me. I guess to a certain extent that is normal and to be expected, given that I was the oldest child and the now “man of the house.” She frequently mentions today in some of our conversations that she depended on me quite a bit as a child, probably too much, and maybe this is some of what she is referring to.”
“So in some way, you were the caregiver back then as well, by the sounds of it,” she noted.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I stated.
“Being the “man of the house” at such a young age is a lot to take on. It sounds like to some extent you were forced to mature quite rapidly or robbed of some of your childhood years,” she commented.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” I responded.
“Well thank you for sharing all of this with me today. I appreciate your openness, honesty, and vulnerability with such a difficult and complicated topic,” she stated with a feeling of genuine gratitude. “I think we have a lot more talking and unpacking to do and I’d love the opportunity to do that with you. As we’re approaching the top of the hour today, I’d like to leave you with a comment for reflection. With everything you’ve shared today, despite your mother’s current health challenges and situation in the present, being put in the role of primary caregiver and not being able to rely on her or have her as a mother-support figure, it sounds to me like there's something deeper in this history and story. It seems like you’ve been living without a mother-support figure for quite some time. And I wonder whether you’re grieving this loss. I wonder if you might have been grieving the loss of your mother for many years before today and the present circumstances. By the sounds of everything you have shared, it’s quite possible you may have been grieving this loss since childhood. Sometimes, we grieve things that are still physically there because they cannot meet our expectations or provide what they should be providing or what we need them to. Your mother, the person, is still physically here, but your mother the figure, the persona, the role, has been absent for quite some time and that loss might be surfacing some difficult emotions for you constantly. This type of grief is quite complex and takes time to navigate. And I wonder if this might be the area we start to unpack together. What do you think about that idea?”
"Hmm...that's an interesting concept. I never thought of it that way," I responded candidly.
"Give it some thought. Let's pick it up again when we meet next and see where your head is at. Does that sound good?” she asked.
“Sure, OK. Thanks for listening today,” I stated.
“My pleasure,” she responded with a subtle smile, as if acknowledging the progress made today in our first session while still being respectful of the delicate information shared.
She then proceeded by getting up, at which point I got the cue that it was time for me to follow her lead and leave.
I looked at my hands, holding a bunch of dirty tissues, wondering how my face looked. I could imagine my eyes were probably all red from the tears, and I certainly didn't look like I did when I first arrived. She picked up the trash can and leaned it in my direction as though to signal I could put my dirty tissues in there.
"Now if you prefer, instead of leaving through the lobby, you can turn left here in the hallway and exit through the back door. It will bring you to the street where the parking is, and you should see your vehicle there. Most clients do this so they don't have to pass through a lobby of potentially waiting clients," she explained.
At this point, the lightbulb lit up and the process now made sense. Of course you pay before your session! Who is going to want to pay after their session if they just finished crying out a full life chapter in a closed room. Some people certainly leave here in much worse shape than I am leaving here today. It makes total sense now to pay first and then have an easy escape without a lobby-passthrough walk of shame.
"Thank you," I responded, "that would be great...I'll do that."
I continued to walk down the hallway to find the backdoor exit. Opening the door, I saw my vehicle parked in the street. Perfect! I thought to myself as I began walking towards it.
I opened the vehicle door, got in, sat down, and took a deep breath. Okay... not quite what I was expecting but not horrible. I didn't really know what to expect but that was fine.
Grieving? Am I really grieving? Have I really been grieving all this time? My mother is still alive! Isn't grieving something you do after somebody passes away? The many questions swirled in my head as I began to drive-off in the direction to my home.
Through Grief We Grow by Brian Vachon is a beautifully measured exploration of grief, born out of what began as therapeutic writing and evolved into a deeply reflective work of memory, research, and meaning. Vachon traces his emotional journey with grace, weaving together journal-style reflections, his therapy sessions with Laura, and psychological research, to paint a full portrait of loss. These elements don’t feel separate: they are intertwined pathways leading him — and the reader — toward a clearer understanding of how grief reshapes not just our days but our identity.
What makes the book especially strong is how Vachon uses his conversations with Laura to illuminate his inner life. Rather than using therapy as a way to “fix” himself, he leans into it, allowing Laura’s questions and his own answers to bring forward deeper truths about how loss affects the stories we tell ourselves. At the same time, he doesn't stay in the therapy room. He brings in grief theory, research on complicated and ambiguous loss, and reflections from his own journals. This back-and-forth between lived experience, therapy, and study creates a tapestry in which his grief becomes both personal and universal.
Reading about Vachon’s attempts to rebuild meaning made me think of my own parents, whose gradual decline has become its own form of anticipatory grief. There is a particular loneliness in watching those we love diminish, a loneliness that rarely fits neatly into society’s definitions of mourning. My own grief has felt like a slow, creeping thing: the gradual fading of loved ones and the strain of watching life change minute by minute. Vachon's work has offered me the clarity and research I need, and will need, as death draws closer.
If the book has a trade-off for some, it's in its pace. Those who want a step-by-step grief workbook may find it less directive than they hoped: the structure leans more toward insight than instruction. But for me that reflective quality has been unexpectedly impactful. For me it feels like a reference book I can return to on an ongoing basis, as I go through my own grief journey.
Through Grief We Grow offers the rare permission to linger — and to find, within that lingering, something quietly transformative. It earns its five stars not by promising closure but by offering a grounded, thoughtful space in which grief can be understood, named, and gradually transformed.