Loss is a Lie

Loss Is a Lie

Lately, it’s felt like the air is carrying something heavier than the changing seasons. Almost everyone I’ve talked to has shared a story of something suddenly missing. A loved one dying without warning—a heart attack on the golf course, a seizure during a bike ride, a dog gone overnight from something he ate. Relationships ending in an instant. The kind of endings that don’t give you time to prepare or process. They just… happen.

And what I keep feeling underneath it all is this:
We keep calling it “loss.”
But I’m not sure that’s what it really is.

What if it’s not loss at all?

I’ve been sitting with that question a lot lately. Especially as I notice how often we grow attached—not just to people or pets or relationships—but to the rhythm of things. The routines that make us feel safe. The presence of someone next to us in bed. The familiar sound of paws on the floor. The coffee maker that works every single morning.

We don’t just love those things—we depend on them. Not because we’re weak, but because we’re wired that way. Our nervous systems are constantly scanning for what feels familiar. Predictability gives the body a sense of safety. It lets us relax.

But here’s where it gets complicated: once something becomes routine, we stop seeing it. We expect it. We assume it will always be there.

And then one day, it’s not.

And we’re left confused, angry, heartbroken—asking, How could this happen?
How could they be here one day and gone the next?

It’s the disruption that hurts so deeply. Not just the absence, but the breaking of a pattern we didn’t even realize we were holding onto.

This is where I come back to that thought: maybe loss is a lie.

Because the truth is, we never really “had” anything. We don’t own the people we love, or the animals we live with, or even the money in our accounts. We share time with them. We hold space for them. We walk beside them for a while.

And when they go, it’s not that they’re lost. It’s that they’ve changed form.

That’s what I think we’re really being asked to see:
It’s not about letting go of love—it’s about letting go of our belief that love should look a certain way, stay a certain way, last a certain way.

Love isn’t in the permanence.
It’s in the presence.

The goal—if there is one—isn’t to never feel pain. It’s to consciously appreciate what we have while it’s here, without expectations, without assumptions, and without the word should hovering over everything.

Easier said than done, I know.

Our subconscious mind doesn’t like uncertainty. The limbic system—responsible for our emotional memories and survival instincts—wants to keep us safe by holding on to what’s predictable. It tells us, Don’t let go. This is what keeps us alive. This is what we know.

And that part of us deserves compassion, too.
It’s doing its job. It’s trying to protect us.

But the conscious mind—our deeper awareness—knows something different.
It knows that nothing is ever really secure.
That everything is in motion.
That presence is the only real place where peace lives.

So how do we live in the space between the two?

We remember that both parts of us—the one craving security and the one surrendering to change—are valid. They both belong. We don’t have to fix or silence either one. We just have to learn how to let the conscious self take the lead a little more often. Even 1% more each day.

Even money follows this rhythm. It can make us feel strong when it’s there, and powerless when it’s gone. We tie so much of our identity and safety to it—and when it disappears, we feel like we’re losing control. But maybe it’s like anything else. Maybe money is also a guest. A balloon we hold for a time.

And speaking of balloons…

That image keeps coming back to me:
A child holding a balloon. Big, bright, floating happily above them.
Their hand wrapped around the string, so sure it’ll stay.
But the wind can shift.
Or maybe the balloon slips away.
Or maybe it just slowly deflates, day by day, until it’s lying on the living room floor.
Maybe it becomes a toy for the cat. Maybe it becomes a memory.

But did they really lose it?
Or did it simply change?

Maybe the magic wasn’t in keeping the balloon.
Maybe it was in holding it with joy, for as long as they could.

That’s what I keep coming back to.
That’s what I want to practice.

Not clinging.
Not assuming.
Not needing things—or people, or routines, or bank accounts—to be a certain way to feel okay.

But choosing to be here.
Grateful.
Awake.
Loving what’s in front of me, while it’s here.

And when the pattern breaks—because it will—I want to remember that it’s okay to feel the disruption. It’s okay to grieve the shape something used to take. But I also want to soften into the knowing that nothing is ever really gone. It’s just transformed.

There is no loss, only transformation

Trust in Love and Trust that we and it changes.
Only the opportunity to love again—in a new form.

When the Body Says “Loss”, and Reacts: A Grounding Response Plan

You’re not broken for reacting.
You’re not wrong for spiraling.
You are having a completely human neurological response to disruption.
And there are things you can do—gentle, powerful things—to bring yourself back into regulation.

Here’s a simple sequence to support your nervous system when it’s overwhelmed by loss or change:

1. Name What’s Happening in the Body (Not Just the Story)

🜁 Say to yourself (out loud if you can):

“My body feels unsafe right now.
I’m having a survival response—not because I’m weak, but because I care.
Nothing is wrong with me.”

📌 This helps shift you from being “in” the reaction to becoming an observer of it. It tells your brain: There’s nothing to fix—just something to hold.

2. Ground with the Senses

🜂 Engage one or more of your five senses—something real, something now.

• Press your feet into the floor.

• Splash cold water on your face.

• Hold an object (stone, fabric, warm mug) and feel its texture.

• Smell something familiar (essential oils, shirt, soil).

• Speak: “I see… I hear… I feel…”

📌 This interrupts the limbic loop and gives your brain something current to focus on.

3. Use Rhythmic Movement

🜃 Regulate with pattern—the thing your nervous system is begging for.

• Rock side to side in a chair or cross-legged.

• Tap gently on your chest, collarbones, or thighs.

• Sway. Walk. Hum.

• Even chewing gum or rubbing your hands can help.

📌 Rhythm is a primal cue of safety—it mimics heartbeat, breath, maternal touch. When the world feels chaotic, rhythm reminds your body that you’re still here.

4. Say One Safe, True Thing

🜄 Whisper (or write down):

“Right now, I am safe enough to breathe.”
“I don’t need to understand this to survive it.”
“I can let myself feel this, without becoming it.”

📌 These are anchors—not affirmations that override pain, but truths that make space for it.

5. Let the Wave Move Through

🜔 The body wants to complete the stress cycle.
If crying comes, let it.
If anger rises, move it safely.
If numbness is here, meet it with breath and presence.
Try not to clamp it down or analyze it.

📌 Emotions are energy. They’re meant to move. They don’t need to be healed—they need to be heard.

Final Words

Loss, disruption, grief—these shake us at the core.
They rearrange the patterns we built our sense of self around.
And it’s okay to need time to re-stabilize.
To reconnect.
To remember: even when things fall apart, you don’t have to.

You’re allowed to lean into your conscious awareness as a new kind of safety, not by bypassing your pain, but by becoming a safe place to feel it.

You’re not losing yourself.
You’re coming home to the part of you that can hold it all.