“Good” Grief?

Rebuilding My Practice

For the first four years of my private practice, I specialized in supporting LGBTQ+ individuals and couples. It was work I cared deeply about and had lived experience with. I built my practice from scratch: networking, starting therapist consultation groups, joining associations, and slowly growing a caseload I felt proud of. It was meaningful work, and I happily served many clients during that time.

As the pandemic began to shift and the world changed with it, I noticed my practice shifting too. I found myself asking questions I hadn’t asked before: Should I offer in‑person sessions again, even though it never felt like the best fit for me? Are the issues clients originally came in for still the ones they’re navigating now? Am I doing the best work I can?

I Didn’t Expect This

It wasn’t until two years ago, in 2024, that my life — and my practice — were turned upside down.

I was in the middle of a significant relationship ending (read: divorce) when I unexpectedly lost my father. These two losses arrived almost simultaneously, and both were so profound and life‑altering that I knew my practice would need to evolve alongside the rest of my life. But that clarity didn’t come easily. In those early days of loss, I could hardly think straight. It felt impossible to see that my life and work were no longer aligned.

And to be completely honest, I wasn’t thriving. The ways I had cared for myself before these losses suddenly felt mediocre at best. I was constantly exhausted, no matter how much I slept. I experienced brain fog, a host of inexplicable physical symptoms, and a terrible, gnawing fear about what my future held. I felt like I was falling apart while trying desperately to appear like I wasn’t.

The Pressure to Perform “Good” Grief

Years of social conditioning as a woman had taught me to keep up appearances — to seem composed, capable, and even to “appear” to be grieving the “right way” (no such thing, by the way). But I was absolutely, fundamentally falling apart. I knew I couldn’t pretend anymore, but I was terrified of what it would mean to show up as imperfectly as I felt.

During a six‑week art therapy grief group at the Denver Hospice, and through my own therapy, something began to shift. I realized that while grief itself was excruciating, what made everything feel significantly worse was the pressure I was putting on myself to hold it all together.

I wasn’t giving myself permission to feel, breathe, or fall apart. I was heartbroken and still trying to seem “okay.”

Living and Healing

Performing was familiar. Being honest about how messy I was? Not so much. I had to confront my fears about being honest with the people in my life, set boundaries I had avoided, and sometimes stop everything in the middle of my day — even when it was wildly inconvenient — to sob into my dad’s t‑shirt.

Providing therapy during these times became one of the few steady places I could rely on. Supporting clients through their own difficulties gave me purpose and reminded me that connection can be a lifeline.

As I reflect on the significance of grief and loss, paired with the mental health challenges so many women face, something is clearer to me now than it ever was before: women deserve specialized grief support. I want to imagine mental health care that acknowledges the lived experiences of women and the pressures we carry — care that not only supports them but helps them build the refuges they may need most when grieving.