Grief, Anger, and Unanswered Questions: Walking Through the Pain of Loss

It’s been two weeks since my world was turned upside down.  Two weeks since I lost my adult daughter, quite unexpectedly.  The pain of that loss has been relentless.  My emotions have been all over the place, but now I find myself in a place where my grief has hardened into anger.  I keep wondering if things could’ve been different.  I’m haunted by the questions, “Could I have done more?  Could someone else have done more?”  The “what-ifs” and “whys” seem to overwhelm my mind.

Maybe you’re grieving someone you love, too.  Maybe, like me, you’re stuck in this endless cycle of questioning, speculating, and blaming.  Grief, with its rawness and unanswered questions, has a way of twisting our hearts until it feels like there’s no way out.

The Anger is Real

This anger I feel is real—so real it’s almost tangible.  It’s intense, consuming, and overwhelming. The hardest part is that I don’t know where to direct it.  Right now, I am experiencing a feeling of helplessness.  Knowing that anger is a natural part of the grieving process doesn’t offer much comfort right now.  Instead, it feels all-consuming, like it’s the only emotion I have room for.  It crowds out the necessary emotions I need to get through the grieving process.  It’s hard to allow the sorrow and sadness to get in when anger crowds them out.

I keep replaying the day she died over and over in my mind.  Questioning: Could someone have seen the signs earlier?  Should she have gone to a different doctor?  Was there anyone there to help her when she needed it most?  And the most painful question of all—could my beautiful, loving daughter’s life have been saved?  The endless cycle of these questions is torture, and yet, I can’t stop myself from going there.  It’s as if I’m searching for some clue, some hidden answer that could give me peace, but all I find is more pain.

No Easy Answers

And, if I am being honest, I think the truth is that there are no easy answers.  That’s one of the hardest things I’m coming to terms with.  Grief doesn’t bring closure.  In fact, it often feels like it’s opening new wounds that I never knew existed.  The uncertainty, the unknowns—they’re like salt on those wounds.  Yet, as much as it hurts, I know that I can’t avoid it.  I have to face it, even when it feels unbearable.

But even in the midst of this pain, I’m learning something important: I don’t have to face it alone. While the anger and questions still rage inside me, I’m trying to remind myself that healing doesn’t happen in isolation.  It happens when I let others in.  With God by my side and my community of loving, caring people walking with me, I know I don’t have to carry this burden on my own.  Their support is like a light in the darkness, guiding me toward healing, even when the path feels dark and scary.

But now, the idea of healing feels far away.  Yet, I have faith that, in time, it will come.  The wounds are deep, and the journey may be long, but with the grace of God and the support of my community, I believe that healing will eventually occur.  Along with it, I believe there will be some form of closure.  It may not look the way I expect, but I trust God that it will come.  

Blame 

Often times, with anger comes the nasty, relentless presence of blame.  Some days, I find myself blaming others—doctors, people who should have been there, and yes, even God.  It’s so easy to point fingers when you’re in pain, to look for somewhere, someone, to direct all that hurt.  It’s really tough when I turn that blame inward.  Asking myself: Did I miss something? Could I have done more? Was there something I should have known, something that could’ve saved her?  

Blame is toxic.  It seeps in, trying to poison every memory, every precious moment.  It can turn them into things to resent and regret.   Even though I know in my mind that blame helps nothing, it doesn’t stop me from going there.  It’s a place my heart keeps returning to in a desperate search for understanding and meaning.  

But you know what?  It’s okay to not have all the answers.  Feeling lost in this sea of questions and doubts, I somehow know It’s okay to not be okay.  Grief doesn’t make sense.  It’s not neat or orderly and it doesn’t follow a straight line.  But somehow, with our good shepherd, Jesus, we’ll find our way through it.  Even if the path is messy and looks nothing like what we expected, He’ll guide our way—step by step, day by day.

The Need for Answers

In the middle of all this anger and blame, what I crave most are answers.  I want to know why this happened. I want to know if there was something—anything—that could have changed the outcome. Maybe you’re feeling that too. Maybe you’re sitting with your own questions, waiting for someone to offer a reason, something that will make all of this make sense.

But here’s the hardest truth I’m slowly beginning to realize: those answers may never come.  As much as I dig, and cry out for clarity, some things may remain unanswered.  And that’s one of the hardest pills for me to swallow in this entire process.  Left holding all the pieces that don’t quite fit together, and not knowing what to do with them exacerbates my feeling of helplessness.

I wish I could tell you that I’ve made peace with that, but I haven’t—not yet.  The need for answers is still there, raw and persistent.  But by God’s grace, I hold on to the faith that one day I’ll find some form of peace, even if the answers never fully reveal themselves.

For now, I’m starting with this simple acknowledgment: that the answers I seek may never come. And even though that’s not the reality I want, simply admitting it is a small step toward healing.  It’s a beginning.

Grief is a reminder that life is unpredictable and fragile.  We do our best, but in the end, we don’t get to decide how things turn out.  And, without God in my life, I would find that terrifying.

Moving Through the Pain, Not Around It

There’s no magic formula for “moving on” or “getting over it.”  Frankly, I don’t think I’ll ever be “over” this, and truthfully, I don’t want to be.  I’ve come to dislike the phrase “move on” because, to me, it implies an ending, a finality to a relationship that I can’t accept. Moving on suggests it’s time to close that chapter and continue life without them.  But no thanks. My relationship with my precious daughter will never end.

Though I can no longer enjoy her physical presence, the memories we created together are treasures I will carry with me always.  She holds a permanent place in my heart, and her joy—the way she touched so many lives—continues to ripple outwards, even in her absence.  In death, she still reaches out, still impacts lives, and that’s something I hold onto.

Maybe the goal of grieving isn’t to “get over it” or “move on,” but to move through it.  Not to bypass the pain or leave it behind, but to carry it forward in a way that honors the one we’ve lost.

I know the pain, the questions, and the anger—they’re all part of this journey, part of the grieving process.  And while I’m trying to feel the full spectrum of emotions, I’ll admit that I’m struggling with it.  I don’t like it.  I don’t want it.  Still, I’m battling through it, trying to give myself grace, even when my mind wants to default to blaming or questioning, or wondering what could have been done differently. But in all this, I cling to the hope that the Lord is with me, walking beside me through the deepest valleys.

Psalm 34:18 brings me comfort in my darkest moments: “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”  It reminds me that even when my spirit feels utterly shattered, God is near.  He’s with me in this pain, not distant, but close, ready to hold me when I feel like I can’t hold myself.

You’re Not Alone

If you’re going through something similar, I want you to know that you are not alone.  Grief is messy, complicated, and often isolating, but there are others—people who understand the depth of this loss.  They may not have the answers you’re seeking, but they can offer understanding, a presence to share in the pain.  Sometimes, the most profound gift is simply sitting with someone in the not-knowing.

For me, community has been vital.  My support systems, my church, friends, family—my own “Band of Brothers”—have all been lifelines, providing prayer, love, and a listening ear when I need it most.  They remind me that I don’t have to carry this burden alone, and neither do you.  Whether it’s through a friend, a support group, or a prayer partner, finding others to lean on can make all the difference.  Community is so important.

Right now, I’m just trying to take things one day, one moment at a time.  I’m learning that it’s okay to be angry, and it’s okay to not have all the answers.  And if you’re in this same place, I hope and pray you know that it’s okay for you too.