I hate to break it to you, brother, but the funeral isn’t the finish line. It’s the starting gun.

Your journey through grief is only beginning. It will change you. And it will keep changing as time moves forward whether you want it to or not. You need to understand that you’ll carry this weight for the rest of your life.

But that doesn’t mean it’ll crush you forever. As you get stronger, the load won’t feel as heavy. It’s like hitting the gym. Building strength means two things: showing up and doing the work to stiffen your spine, and staying the hell away from the stuff that makes you even weaker than you already feel.

At times, both will seem harder than anything you’ve done in your life.

Everyone thinks the worst part is when the person they love dies. And that part is brutal. But at least there are a million other things to focus on. There are people to notify, a funeral to plan, and all the details that need to be taken care of. You might have a eulogy to obsess over - the writing of it and the worrying about how the hell you’re going to stand up and say it.

Then the funeral ends and the door clicks shut behind the last guest. You load the flowers into your car and head back home in a daze. Except it doesn’t feel like home because there’s a gaping hole in your life that can never be filled. Now what? For a lot of men, this is when reality finally starts to set in. They’re gone. Everything is different. And you have no idea what to do next.

In the beginning, people reach out and show up. They drop off food and text to check in on you. It might seem overwhelming to the point where you want to tell them all to fuck off, even though you know they are trying to help.

They’ll ask you questions like, “What do you need?” Every time someone asks, you feel obligated to come up with an answer. You don’t know what the hell you need. And the idea of trying to figure it out feels like another task to do when you can barely pick out a pair of socks in the morning. You might find yourself wanting to scream at them, “Quit asking me all these fucking questions and just do something!!!”

Then there are the people on the opposite end of the spectrum. The ones who don’t say anything. Grief scares the shit out of them. They are so clueless about what to say or do that they pretend like nothing happened. Every time you talk to them you’re waiting for them to say something, and they never do. It’s so easy to lash out at them in anger or banish them from what’s left of your life.

Before long, even the ones who were there start to disappear. It doesn’t happen all at once. It’s like they’re slipping out the back door and hoping you won’t notice. Why wouldn’t they? The world keeps turning and they have their own lives and responsibilities to take care of. Even though you want to be left alone, it still feels like you’ve been abandoned.

You’re forced to watch these same people post the highlight reels of their lives on social media like nothing happened. You try to give them some grace. After all, they didn’t lose someone they love. You did. But it’s so damn easy for bitterness and resentment to creep in.

WHIPLASH

The loneliness is hard enough but that’s just a small part of this hellish experience. The complete unpredictability of grief is like being stabbed in the heart over and over. You know it’s coming. You just don’t know when. So you stay on guard—and that vigilance drains what little strength you’ve got left.

One minute, you think you might actually be okay. The next, a smell, a song, a stranger’s voice knocks the air out of your lungs and you’re bawling in the parking lot banging your forehead off the steering wheel.

Then there are the milestones. It’s not just the birthdays or anniversaries that will never be the same. It’s the moments you’ll never share again. Like the first time your kid’s tooth falls out and their mom isn’t there. Or realizing your daughter would have gotten her hair cut by now and you’ll never know what crazy colour she went with next. You might even find yourself staring at the number of days since their last social media post and cursing at how the number keeps increasing. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

There are countless mundane moments where your new reality and your expectations collide. We build these mental maps that help us navigate our lives more efficiently. We’re always looking for expected patterns so we don’t have to waste energy thinking about everything.

Picture walking to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get a glass of water. You probably don’t need to turn the lights on because you have a map in your mind where things are. Now, imagine putting your hand where the dining room table is supposed to be and it’s not there. You’d be surprised and disoriented.

Now, imagine that same thing happening over and over again. You walk down for breakfast and they aren’t there like they’re supposed to be. You no longer get the texts you were used to telling you they’re leaving work. The socks on the floor that used to drive you nuts are gone. You’d give anything to have them back and promise you’d never be annoyed about it again.

Every time this happens it hurts. Sometimes the pain is short, intense and passes quickly. Other times it’s like being punched in the face by a heavyweight boxer. Every one of these moments drains what little fight you have left in you.

These mental maps don’t get rewritten overnight. You can’t logic your way through the misery by saying things like, “Of course they won’t be at the table for breakfast tomorrow. They’re dead.” This isn’t about logic, brother. It’s about the long, painful process of creating a new reality. One that you don’t want to have to rebuild.

COPING

As time passes, putting one foot in front of the other takes everything you have. You’re so damn tired. You’re tired of them being dead. You’re tired of missing them. You’re tired of watching the people around you suffering. And you’re tired of your own pain.

It becomes easier and easier to convince yourself that you deserve a break. How much can any human being be expected to put up with? Anyone else would have cracked by now. Why the fuck do you have to be the hero?

Maybe you were already wrestling with addiction and you double down on it. Maybe you’d been clean for years and you relapse. You know it’s a terrible idea but you just can’t take it anymore. Or maybe you pick up new, destructive ways of dealing with it all and before you know it, you’re trapped.

Many guys throw themselves into work. They work harder and longer and burn the candle at both ends. Work is something they can control when everything else in their lives feels out of control. Plus, when they’re at work, they’re not around the other people in their lives who are suffering. It’s so easy to tell yourself that you’re “winning at grief” because you’re still financially providing for your family.

Or you shut down and don’t talk about it at all. You try to stuff it all into a box, lock it, and throw away the key. Now you’ve isolated yourself from yourself and you’ve made the people left behind feel even more alone. All the while, you’ve got a cancer eating you from the inside out while you’re pretending you’re fine.

I understand what you’re going through and there is no judgement here. Know this one thing: the piper will always be paid in the end, brother. No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise. Sometimes the price he extracts is everything you care about.

THE PEOPLE LEFT BEHIND

While we’re at it, we might as well keep piling on the shit you’ll have to face. The people you love have lost someone too. A mom, sister, brother, grandkid. Every one of them is living their own version of hell and dealing with it, or not, in their own ways.

If you’ve lost a kid, your spouse or partner did too. You shutting down or drinking yourself into oblivion means they’re losing you too. Or maybe it’s the other way around and you feel like you’re losing them. Often, it’s both of you and you’re losing each other.

It’s so easy to start judging each other for not grieving “right.” You shut down or lash out in anger. But at least you’re still showing up for work and convincing yourself you're moving on. Your wife might be lost in crushing sadness and seem stuck in the worst of grief. For a long damn time.

You convince yourself she’s dragging you down and you start to blame her for the pain you’re feeling. She’s the reason your life isn’t moving forward. Instead of sitting in the shit with her, you try to fix her. You tell her how she should be dealing with it. And every time you try to help, it just makes things worse. The gap between you widens until you’re strangers living under the same roof.

Watching your kid who’s lost their mom or sibling is its own unique version of utter helplessness. There’s nothing more self-centered than a kid. They tend to be completely focused on their own loss.

Not you though. You’re dealing with your own grief and now you have to find a way to handle the heartbreak of watching your kid(s) suffer through the aftermath. As much as you want to take their pain away, you can’t. That’s a power you just don’t have, my man. It’s a damn hard thing for a man, who wants to fix problems, to accept and to witness.

Most guys have no idea about any of this when loss hits them. Grief is not linear. It’s unpredictable and feels viciously random. There’s no neat and tidy “five stages” that flow from one to the next.

You’ll cry in the grocery store. You’ll go numb for a week. You’ll forget what day it is. You’ll lose your shit on your kid and hate yourself for it. You’ll have an anxiety attack when you try to have sex with your wife.

You’ll want to banish the people who let you down from your life. You’ll hate things you used to love. You’ll want to burn down your career or business and start something new. You’ll want to move away where no one knows you and you never have to explain this fucked up story again.

You’ll feel fine and then in the next minute you’ll be clutching their urn to your chest bawling your head off. You’ll know, in your head, that crying is supposed to be good for you but you’ll feel weak and pathetic when it happens. You think you’re making progress for a day or a week and then think you’re backsliding when the pain rears its ugly head again.

You’re not. This is what grief looks like, brother.

You’re not broken. You’re not insane. And your life is not over.

Knowing what to expect can help make a little sense when nothing else does. Expect silence from people who promised they’d be there. Expect dumbass advice from people who mean well but don’t get it. Expect to be forgotten. Expect to feel rage you didn’t know you were capable of. Expect to feel nothing at all. Expect time to keep moving while you stay frozen.

And expect this:

At some point, something small will shift. A laugh will escape your mouth and you won’t hate yourself for it. You’ll get through a day without every moment feeling like a fight. You’ll see a picture of them and not flinch. You’ll be able to think about happy memories with them without feeling so guilty. You’ll notice that you’re able to feel a connection with them beyond the pain.

It’s going to take more work to heal than you think you have to give. It’s going to take much longer than you can imagine. But it’s possible and you need to believe it. Because that belief will fuel you through the days, weeks, and months ahead.

Read More of This Guide

• Read This First
  Welcome to Grief. I’m sorry you’re here.

• What the Hell Is Happening to Me?
  Your system is short-circuiting because it’s trying to save you.

• What Grief Does to a Man’s Mind
  Why You’re Going Silent, Blowing Up, or Disappearing

• What to Expect in the Days, Weeks, and Months Ahead
  The Funeral Isn’t the Finish Line. It’s the Starting Gun.

• What to Do Right Now
  You can’t fix this. But you can survive it.

• The Mask Is a Lie You Tell Yourself to Feel in Control
  You don’t owe anyone a performance while your world is burning.

• When the Urge to Escape Takes Over
  You want to punch something. Or disappear. Or drink until you black out.

• What’s Going to Mess with Your Head
  How to see the lies that grief makes so easy to believe.

• Why You Don’t Have to Make Meaning Yet
  Meaning can come later. Getting through the day is enough.

• Final Word
  You're still here. That matters.