You don’t just lose them.
They are ripped from you.
One moment, they are here. Breathing, texting you, existing in the same world as you. And then, in the most impossible, violent, wrong way:
They’re gone.
And you are left behind in the wreckage. Looking around, waiting for someone to tell you this is a mistake. That they misread the news. That there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. That this isn’t happening.
But no one does.
Instead, people say words that mean nothing. I’m so sorry. Let me know if you need anything. They wouldn’t want you to be sad.
Like any of this makes a difference. Like any of it can undo the unbearable truth.
They are gone. And you are still here. And none of it makes sense.
This is what it feels like to experience the sudden loss of a friend, to wake up in a world that no longer includes them, to carry the weight of their absence in every breath.
It’s Normal to Feel Numb After a Sudden Loss
Maybe you thought grief would break you immediately. That the second you heard the words, your body would give out, your knees would hit the floor, and the sobs would tear through you.
But instead, you just… exist.
Maybe you stood there in silence. Maybe you laughed at first, thinking it had to be a joke. Maybe you asked them to say it again, slower this time, like the words themselves weren’t computing.
Or maybe you just kept going. You made coffee. You answered a text. You put your shoes on and left the house because what else were you supposed to do?
And deep down, some part of you is wondering, Why haven’t I fallen apart yet?
The truth? Because your brain won’t let you. Not yet.
This is how the body protects itself after the death of a friend; by keeping the grief just out of reach, just long enough to keep you standing.
It knows that if you feel all of it right now, you won’t survive it.
So it builds a wall. It keeps the grief locked away, just enough so you can keep breathing, just enough so your heart keeps beating even though it feels like it should have stopped, too.
But eventually, the wall will break. And when it does, it’s going to hurt in ways you didn’t know were possible.
If It Feels Unreal, That’s Because It Is
You ever lose something small (your phone, your keys, a piece of jewelry) and immediately know it’s nearby?
That certainty that if you just look in the right place, you’ll find it again?
Your brain is doing that with your friend.
It still believes they’re here somewhere. That if you just retrace your steps, if you just wait a little longer, if you just don’t accept it, they’ll walk through the door.
So you keep checking. Checking your phone. Checking their social media. Checking every old message, every voicemail, searching for proof that they were real.
And every time you do, you get hit with the same devastating truth:
They are not coming back.
You will never hear their voice again. Never feel them squeeze your arm, or nudge you in a crowded room, or send you a random “look at this dumb meme” text in the middle of the night.
And your brain cannot accept that. It refuses to accept that.
So it leaves you stuck in this in-between place, where none of it feels real but every second is suffocating under the weight of knowing that it is.
And there is no way out of it.
You just have to survive it.
This is what makes the loss of a friend, especially one who died unexpectedly, so unbearable…. you can still feel them everywhere, and yet, they are nowhere.
Your Mind May Be Protecting You from the Full Pain of Losing a Friend
Grief is not just sadness.
It is pain. Physical pain.
Your chest aches like something is being crushed inside it. Your limbs feel heavy, your head foggy, like your body is trying to shut itself down.
Some days, the exhaustion is unbearable. You wake up more tired than when you went to sleep. Maybe you don’t sleep at all, because every time you close your eyes, your brain replays it.
What happened. How you found out. That moment where everything shattered.
You think about calling them, just to see. Just to hear their voicemail. Just to make sure. Because maybe if you hear their voice, maybe if you text them, maybe if you just hold onto something that belonged to them, it’ll feel less final.
But it never does.
Because this is final.
And your body knows that if it lets you feel all of this at once, you will break.
So instead, it slows everything down. It keeps you numb, disconnected, going through the motions like someone else is controlling you.
But the pain is coming. It is already there, waiting.
And when it hits, it will be all-consuming.
You Might Keep Replaying What Happened… That’s Okay
The moment you found out. The way the words felt like a punch to the chest. The way your stomach dropped, your hands went cold, your whole body rejected the information.
Or maybe you’re stuck in the last time you saw them. The last text. The last time you could have reached out but didn’t.
And then come the what-ifs.
What if I had called them?
What if I had been there?
What if I had noticed something was wrong?
It loops in your head, over and over, like some part of you still thinks you can rewrite the past.
Because that’s what your brain does. It searches for control.
It tells you, If only you had done this one thing, maybe they’d still be here.
It doesn’t matter if their death was an accident. It doesn’t matter if there was nothing you could have done. The guilt doesn’t care. It sinks in deep, wrapping around your ribs, making every breath feel heavier.
Because if there’s something you could have done, then maybe this isn’t just meaningless, random, wrong.
But there is nothing.
And that is the hardest thing to live with.
Because no matter how much you replay it, no matter how much you beg the universe to take you back in time, no matter how much you promise you would do anything differently:
They are still gone.
And you are still here.
The sudden loss of a friend leaves you drowning in questions you’ll never have answers to. And that might be the hardest part of all.
And that truth is so sharp, so unbearable, that it feels like it will kill you too.
But it won’t.
You will survive it, even when you don’t want to.
And that is the cruelest part of all.
The Emotional Weight Can Feel Overwhelming
Grief is heavy. It weighs down your arms, your legs, your chest. It makes everyday things; answering a text, getting out of bed, making a cup of coffee feel impossible.
Like your body is filled with wet cement.
And the worst part? The world doesn’t care. The world keeps going.
Sadness Can Come in Waves That Feel Unbearable
People expect you to show up. To work. To talk. To function. They don’t see how wrong it all feels. How you’re standing there, nodding at conversations, forcing yourself to respond to how are you doing? when what you really want to say is:
How do you think I’m doing?
Do you even remember they’re gone? Because I do. Every second of every day.
They were just here. How is everyone acting normal? How are people talking about weekend plans, complaining about the weather, going to coffee shops, breathing, breathing, when your friend is dead?
The loss of a friend isn’t just sadness and shock. It’s the waves upon waves of grief crashing on you. It’s the unbearable knowledge that the world is moving on, even when you can’t.
No one warns you that grief feels like this. That it’s not just sadness. It’s rage.
The Anger Can Take You by Surprise
Nobody talks about how angry grief makes you.
Angry at how unfair it is. Angry at whatever took them. Angry at yourself. Angry at them.
Yes. At them.
And that’s the anger nobody lets you talk about.
Because how could they leave you? How could they be so careless? So reckless? So sick without telling you? So unlucky? How could they just… go?
It wasn’t their fault. You know that. But that doesn’t stop the anger from rising up anyway.
And then there’s the anger at everyone else. At the people who don’t know how to talk to you now, so they just… don’t. At the ones who act like you should be “moving forward” already. At the ones who say something well-meaning but hollow, like everything happens for a reason, and you want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them because what possible reason could justify this?
And then the worst anger of all: the anger at nothing. At everything. At the fact that there is no one to blame, no one to fix it, no one to make it make sense.
If you’re mad, be mad. If you want to scream, scream. If you want to punch a wall, do it.
Because grief isn’t polite. It isn’t soft. It isn’t just sitting in a quiet room with tears slipping down your face. It is rage. It is injustice. It is wrong.
Grief doesn’t look the same for everyone. And for many, especially men, it can show up as anger, isolation, or even silence. If you or someone you love is struggling in this way, here’s a deeper look at how men process grief and the loss of a loved one.
Guilt Will Show Up Even When You Know It Shouldn’t
It doesn’t matter how they died. If it was sudden. If it was an accident. If it was something you could never have stopped. Some part of you will still try to take the blame.
Why didn’t I check in more?
What if I had called them that day?
What if I had noticed something was wrong?
It loops in your head, over and over, like some part of your brain thinks if you replay it enough, you can rewrite the ending.
But you can’t.
The truth is, this wasn’t on you. You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to save them. You were just supposed to be their friend. And you were.
And I know, I know, that’s not enough to quiet the guilt. Because it feels like you should have done more. But if they were here, if they could tell you one thing, it would be this:
You did not fail me.
Grief Isn’t Just Sadness. It’s Fury
Nobody tells you that grief feels like betrayal. Like the universe pulled the rug out from under you and left you bleeding on the pavement. Like something was stolen from you, ripped out of your hands before you even knew to hold on tighter.
And now you’re just… here. Stuck in a world that still expects you to answer emails and pay bills and make small talk at the grocery store. Like nothing happened.
But something did happen.
Your friend died.
And nobody seems to understand what that actually means.
It means their story is over, just like that. No final scene. No goodbye. Just an abrupt, merciless stop.
It means you will never get another text from them. Never hear them laugh again. Never get to tell them that stupid thing you were saving for the next time you saw them.
It means there is no next time.
How is that even possible? How is that fair?
It isn’t. And you have every right to be angry about it.
Nobody Knows How to Handle You Now
People don’t know what to do with grief. They avoid it like it’s contagious.
They don’t ask about your friend. They don’t bring up their name. They just look at you with pity, or worse, discomfort, like your pain is something they need to step around carefully.
Or they do the thing. You know the thing.
The head tilt. The soft voice. “How are you doing?”
And you can’t even answer honestly because they don’t actually want to know. They want you to say hanging in there or taking it day by day so they can feel like they checked the box of being a good person and then move on with their day.
But what if you told the truth?
What if you said:
“I’m furious.”
“I feel like I’m going insane.”
“I don’t know how to live in a world where they don’t exist.”
What if you let them see the real grief, the ugly grief, the one that makes you want to punch a hole in the wall and scream at the sky?
They wouldn’t know what to do with that. They’d panic. They’d try to fix it, say something like “It’ll get easier,” or “They’d want you to be happy.”
Would they? Would they want you to just move on like their absence doesn’t rip through you every single day?
Or would they understand that this is what love looks like when the person is gone? That if the roles were reversed, you wouldn’t expect them to just be okay either?
Guilt Will Try to Break You
Even if you know, actually know, this wasn’t your fault, the guilt still sneaks in.
It doesn’t listen to logic. It doesn’t care that there was nothing you could have done. It just whispers, constantly:
You should have called them more.
You should have been there.
You should have known.
You should have, you should have, you should have.
Like you had some kind of power over life and death. Like you were supposed to save them.
But you weren’t.
And if they were here, if they could see the way you’re tearing yourself apart over this, they would tell you to stop. They would tell you that they knew you loved them. That they still know.
But they’re not here. And that’s the cruelest part.
Your Memories Might Bring Both Comfort and Pain
At first, maybe you tried to hold onto them like a lifeline. Maybe you scrolled through old texts, replayed their voice in your head, tried to memorize every detail; how they laughed, how they moved, the stupid little phrases only they said.
Or maybe you couldn’t. Maybe even thinking about them hurt too much, like touching a raw wound. Maybe you shoved it all down, avoided the places you used to go together, skipped the songs you both loved, turned away from their pictures because looking at them felt like a knife straight to the ribs.
And either way, it didn’t change the fact that they’re still gone.
People will tell you to focus on the good times. They’ll say “At least you have the memories,” as if that’s supposed to be some kind of gift. But what they don’t understand is that the memories don’t just exist.
They cut.
Because every single one of them ends the same way. With the gut-wrenching realization that there won’t be any more.
You don’t get more time. You don’t get to make new inside jokes, take new pictures, have one more ridiculous, late-night conversation.
This is it. What you have is all there will ever be. And that’s unbearable.
The Good Times You Shared May Hurt Right Now
It sneaks up on you.
One second, you’re laughing at something they said years ago. The next, you’re fighting back tears because it hits you like a punch to the chest. That there will never be another new joke.
No new stories.
No new memories.
Maybe you find something of theirs… a hoodie, a note, a dumb little trinket they left in your car, and suddenly, it’s not just an object. It’s a landmine.
And when you hold it, when you smell it, when you run your fingers over it, for one heartbreaking second, they feel close.
And then the second passes, and it feels like losing them all over again.
Missing Them Doesn’t Mean You’ll Forget the Joy They Brought
The fear creeps in eventually.
That the sound of their voice will fade. That you’ll forget the way they said your name. That one day, you’ll wake up and not think of them first thing in the morning.
It feels like a betrayal, doesn’t it? The idea that time will keep stretching forward, pulling you further and further from the last moment you had with them.
But here’s the thing: missing them doesn’t mean you’re losing them.
They are stitched into you. Every joke, every memory, every weird little thing only the two of you understood.
They are part of you. And even if the pain softens, even if the days start to feel lighter, they do not leave.
Find Small Ways to Keep Their Memory Alive After Their Sudden Loss
There is no right way to do this.
Maybe you keep their picture by your bed. Maybe you wear their hoodie, their ring, their favorite color. Maybe you listen to their favorite song on repeat or find yourself using the phrases they used to say without even realizing it. (If you find comfort in music… check this out, it might help with the pain.)
Maybe you talk to them when no one else is around. Maybe you light a candle on the day of their passing. Maybe you do absolutely nothing at all because everything still feels too raw, and that’s okay too.
This isn’t about moving on. That’s not a real thing. This is about carrying them with you, in whatever way makes sense for you.
They were here. They mattered. And just because the world acts like it’s time to let go doesn’t mean you have to listen.
You don’t let go of people like this. You learn how to live with the love they left behind.
Give Yourself Time to Grieve Without Pressure
People love to put timelines on grief.
They expect the crying to taper off after a few weeks. They assume you’ll “be yourself again” in a few months. They don’t realize that some mornings, even years later, you’ll wake up feeling like the loss just happened.
And when that happens, you might feel like you’re doing it wrong. Like you’re failing at grieving because you’re not moving forward fast enough.
But there is no fast enough. There is no right way to do this. There is just you, surviving each impossible day, one after another.
You Don’t Need to “Move On”
Let’s be clear: moving on is a myth. A phrase made up by people who have never lost someone like this.
You don’t move on from a person who shaped you. You don’t just leave them behind. That’s not how love works.
Grief is not something you finish. It’s not a project you complete or a test you pass. It doesn’t have an ending. It just… becomes part of you.
Some days, it will be heavy. Other days, it will be lighter. But it will always be there, because they will always be part of your life.
And that is not a weakness. That is proof that they mattered. That they still matter.
Avoiding the Pain of Losing a Friend Won’t Make It Go Away
It’s tempting, isn’t it?
To throw yourself into work, distractions, anything to keep the grief from swallowing you whole. To push it down, numb it out, pretend, for just a little while, that you’re okay.
And maybe that works for a time. Maybe you convince yourself you’re fine.
But grief doesn’t disappear just because you ignore it. It waits. It finds ways to surface. In exhaustion, in anger, in the way your body aches even when nothing is wrong.
It will come out one way or another. And if you don’t let yourself feel it now, it will blindside you later.
So let it in. Let it wreck you when it needs to. Let yourself cry in public. Let yourself have days where you can’t do a damn thing but sit in the reality of it.
It’s not weakness.
If you’d like to know how to channel this pain so it doesn’t completely break you, watch this video on Controlled Grief.
Trust That You’ll Move Forward at Your Own Pace After Their Death
You will not always feel like this.
Not because time magically heals all wounds (it doesn’t). But because one day, the grief will make space for other things. For laughter that doesn’t feel guilty. For moments of peace. For joy that doesn’t taste like betrayal.
Not because you’ve moved on. But because you’ve learned how to carry it.
Because grief doesn’t shrink. It doesn’t go away. But your life, slowly, painfully, will grow around it.
And when that happens, when the weight shifts just enough that you can breathe again, know this:
It’s not because you stopped loving them. It’s because you learned how to love them while still being here.
A Message from Cristi
Dear beautiful soul,
I am so sorry for the pain you’re in. For the way your heart is breaking right now. I know grief can feel all-consuming, like it will swallow you whole. And I won’t tell you to move on. Because a lifetime is not enough to move on from a loss like this.
Here’s what I can offer you:
In my own personal story, I have felt the kind of grief that breaks a person. The kind that makes you question how you’ll ever survive it. And I poured all of that into this free grief course, not the usual “time heals all wounds” talk, but something real. Something that might help you make sense of the pain when nothing else does.
Get instant access here. I hope it brings you even the smallest bit of comfort.
And if you’re looking for more guided healing… I have a space for you here.
P.S. If you’d like to talk to someone, to find a way through this, we’re here to support you. Click here to set up an appointment.