4 Types of “Smaller” Grief We Need to Talk About

Grief, our response to loss, is often discussed around the death of a loved one. And death is likely the biggest loss we can experience. But there are also “smaller” losses that are not as recognized, validated, and discussed. From all I’ve seen in the hospital with the dying and at deathbeds, here are four types of lesser known losses that require just as much attention.

1. We go through multiple types of “non-death loss” all the time. 

These seemingly smaller losses take up just as much emotional space as a death.

Moving to a new place, a next stage in life, a divorce, a break-up, the breakdown of old valued items, losing an aspect of your health, a coworker leaving, losing a job, starting a job, a changed faith, or changing community—these losses fall under symbolic loss. But there’s nothing really symbolic about them. They are deeply and uniquely painful, just as meaningful as the death of a loved one.

A break-up, in fact, can lead to similar symptoms of bereavement: intrusive thoughts, insomnia, reduced immune system, and even heart failure.[1] Losing a job can, in some people, create severe emotional distress and a condition called JLCG, job loss-related complicated grief.[2] And just as with losing a loved one, losing a dream or our faith requires us to “relearn the world,” to readjust ourselves without our familiar failsafes.[3]

Many of my patients who are enduring cancer or car accidents will also talk about their break-up or job loss or lost dreams with equal amounts of sorrow and anguish. These non-death losses bring about intense grief. But too often these are not considered a “real loss.” Why? My speculation is that we each have a barometer of comparative suffering in which we are sure that someone else has it worse than us. If death is the hardest of suffering, then it seems our own smaller losses don’t compare.

I visit patients in half-rooms who almost always tell me, “I’m going through it bad, but I can’t complain. The guy next to me has it worse.” When I visit the patient in the next bed, they’ll say the same thing about the patient I just saw. I imagine that this comparison steps from a deep, human sense of honor that downplays our own suffering. But—suffering should never be an arms race of whose is bigger. It’s our own sense of compassion that does not want to say that my small loss is worse than the death of a whole person.

Please know: Your loss and every loss is valid. Every loss is its own death. Losing a wedding ring, seeing an old store from childhood replaced, signing the divorce papers, leaving a church—these are tangible losses that vastly disrupt our world. They’re real. They hurt.

2. Death of a loved one creates a domino effect called “secondary loss.” 

After losing a loved one, there is a cascade of instant erosion resulting from the void of the person who’s gone. This can be loss of income, routine, home, physical comfort, and making future memories.

The hardest part about secondary loss is its cruelty and unfairness. Not only is your loved one gone, but there is now a sinkhole around them that pulls in your life that was built together. On top of this void is a pile of paperwork, deadlines, and debts. It is unexpected, and many are caught unprepared by how brutal these secondary losses are.

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This vacuum requires every one of us to fill in. From functional needs like the death certificate to insurance to bills to grocery shopping to hygiene, to emotional needs like food with friends and social outings, all our secondary losses require calling in our community. It should not be on the bereaved to call for help; the community must step in. But I also advocate for my patients to advocate for themselves to the best of their own capacity. To not be afraid to say to their own community, Here is what I need from you right now.

If possible, it is a good idea to create two columns after loss: functional and emotional. Then, consider those companions who can support you, even years down the line. You may be surprised how adept and willing some of your community is at stepping up and in.

3. Any time we grow, we grieve. 

With growth comes grief. Any change involves loss, even positive change.

When we grow, whether in career, reputation, or emotional maturity found in therapy, we can find ourselves angry at the presumed “lack of growth” in others. It’s a natural response. We wish others would grow and go with us. We wish they would be excited over the same insights we’ve discovered. But our growth is not theirs, and this comparison is a type of grief. I’ve called it growth grief, when we grieve the gap between who we were and who we’ve become. Out of the metric of our own growth, we are tempted to judge others. But mostly, our growth comes with an unexpected loneliness.

One of the most awkward and uncomfortable griefs I’ve seen in my patient visits is between adult children and their parents. Adult children who outgrow their parents in some area of their own lives can become resentful, ashamed, outraged around their parents. As adult children grow, their image of their parents shift to a hard reality: My parents are just people. And they were not always the people I needed them to be. This gap between real and ideal is sharp enough to cause grief, to long for the parents who should have been.

Another growth grief moves in an unexpected direction: My patients who begin recovery from an addiction are not only at war with themselves, but with their family. A recovering addict, rather than being celebrated by family, will instead hear: This is just a phase. You can’t really change. We’ve seen this before. Why? The family had played the role of rescuer. And when their troubled family member is no longer needing rescue, there is a sort of grief of losing a “savior” role.

In growth grief, we need extra compassion for ourselves and others. It requires compassion in both directions to not only continue growing, but to recognize that others have their own pace and tempo. And they may not go with you; they may have difficulty adjusting to this newer you. When we grow, this requires a healthy grief to unfurl from expectations in both directions. The best thing in growth for all involved is to start over, each day, each moment.

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4. Disenfranchised grief is a “silent” or “taboo” grief. 

This is grief in response to a loss that’s unrecognized or disapproved.

Socially unrecognized grief can include the death of a pet or neighbor, and it can include more complicated grief such as the death of an ex-spouse, an abuser, or addict in the family. Many people of color also experience disenfranchised grief when they see their native home country harmed by violence, even if they’ve never visited.

A common deathbed scene: My patient is dying, and his family is present. But one by one, each family member admits that underneath their grief, they feel relief. This dying patient had been an abuser, a monstrous and malevolent shadow over his family. And when he takes his last breath, his family takes their first. An exhale. A sigh. They feel guilty for feeling so much freedom. They do grieve him. But it’s mixed, a complex and even nervous grief.

It is important to name and validate these complicated losses. Processing this loss will need both a recognition of the loss itself and the layered feelings around it. Feelings of guilt, embarrassment, and loneliness are natural and common. You may need an emotional vault, whether therapist or confidante or childhood friend, to pour out these feelings without fear of judgment. Even a chaplain might do.

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[1] https://www.scirp.org/html/6296.html

[2] https://www.frontiersin.org/journals/psychiatry/articles/10.3389/fpsyt.2022.933995/full

[3] https://www.mdpi.com/2071-1050/16/2/849