Grief is an unusual companion — ever-present, erratic, and impossible to outgrow. Contrary to common belief, it isn’t merely a challenge to overcome or a set of phases to finish. This perspective implies there exists a conclusion, a moment when the agony ceases and you emerge “healed.” However, grief does not function this way. It remains, transforms, and evolves into something with which you must learn to coexist. Throughout this experience, it’s essential to permit yourself to embrace all that comes with it — the sadness, the anger, the numbness, and even fleeting instances of happiness.
I experienced the loss of both my parents within a span of three years — my father in September 2021, followed by my mother in August 2024. As an only child in a tightly-knit trio, their absence has been profoundly devastating. The grief has unearthed a childhood fear I’ve held for as long as I can recollect — the dread of being alone in the world.
Since then, I’ve been maneuvering through the turmoil that follows a loss: the quiet, the bewilderment, the unforeseen clarity. I’ve delved into books, tuned into podcasts, and attended therapy sessions. Each source has provided something meaningful, yet none could entirely encompass the vastness of what I was experiencing.
Recently, I’ve caught myself retreating into nostalgia — revisiting the music, television shows, and literature that once offered solace. With just a few clicks, I can stream the shows that defined my youth, listen to AI-curated playlists reminiscent of my teenage mixtapes, and rediscover the well-loved paperbacks I once cherished. These nostalgic treasures now extend beyond mere comfort — they offer me a fresh perspective through which to navigate my grief.
Here are the ones that have profoundly impacted me:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season 5, “The Body”
This episode portrays the raw, bewildering aftermath of loss with haunting accuracy. When Buffy discovers her mother’s lifeless form, her soft “Mommy” echoes the childlike vulnerability I felt when I bid farewell to my own mother. Creator Joss Whedon characterized the episode as depicting “the black-ashes-in-your-mouth numbness of death,” which perfectly encapsulates my experience — a surreal fog where the world continues to spin while yours comes to a halt.
Mary Jane by Alanis Morissette
A lesser-known gem from 1995’s Jagged Little Pill, “Mary Jane” once resonated like a gentle ballad about a struggling friend. Now, it resonates deeply. It addresses the overwhelming despair that engulfs you when grief and mental health intersect. Mary Jane represents anyone who has ever felt immobilized in a world that refuses to slow down, even as your heart shatters.
The Golden Girls, Season 6, “Ebbtide’s Revenge”
The loss of my mother also meant losing the buffer that previously shielded me from complex family dynamics. While I can’t relate to Dorothy’s grief for her brother Phil, this episode illuminated how my mother’s absence influenced my extended family. Sophia’s composed façade eventually crumbles, exposing the guilt and confusion she carried. It served as a reminder that grief often lurks behind anger, silence, or even humor.
Other People
Chris Kelly’s semi-autobiographical film follows David, a writer who cares for his terminally ill mother. Jesse Plemons and Molly Shannon deliver poignant performances that reflect my own experiences with anticipatory grief. The film encapsulates surreal moments — such as breaking down in a grocery store while shopping for laxatives — that feel both absurd and profoundly human. I experienced my own version of that scene, sobbing in a Florida Dollar Tree while “Feather” by Sabrina Carpenter played in the background.
Sex and the City, Season 4, “My Motherboard, My Self”
In this episode, Miranda mourns her mother’s passing far from her friends, mirroring my own isolation in Florida, thousands of miles away from my support network in L.A. The episode underscores the significance of chosen family — when Carrie, Charlotte, and Samantha come together for Miranda, it serves as a reminder that love and support can arise from unexpected quarters. The moment Carrie silently takes Miranda’s hand during the funeral procession has lingered with me — a silent gesture of solidarity that conveys so much.
Under the Whispering Door by TJ Klune
I didn’t encounter this novel until three years after my father’s death — and just weeks following my mother’s loss. In this story, Wallace, a recently deceased lawyer, finds himself in a tea shop functioning as a waystation for souls. As he reassesses his life and opens himself up to love and compassion, I found myself doing the same. Klune’s narrative helped me realize that grief is not a force to be vanquished but something to bear — a quiet companion on the road ahead.