There are times in grief when the world continues moving around us, people are talking, traffic is passing, someone is laughing nearby and the ordinary business of life is carrying on, yet it can feel as though we are observing it all through a thick sheet of glass.
We can see life, but we cannot quite reach it; we can hear the people we love, but their words seem softened and far away, and although our body is present, some tender part of us has stepped backwards to find shelter.
This feeling can be frightening, especially when we wonder whether we are becoming cold, detached or unlike ourselves, but that sense of separation does not mean we have stopped caring; sometimes it means we have cared so deeply, and lost so much, that our mind and body are trying to absorb what has happened a little at a time.
The glass can be a form of protection
We often imagine grief as constant crying, but grief can also look like staring into space, forgetting what someone has just said, moving through the day on automatic pilot, feeling strangely numb during an important occasion or watching our own life as though it belongs to somebody else.
After trauma or profound loss, reality can feel too large to take in all at once, and the nervous system may soften our feelings or create a sense of distance because it is trying to protect us from experiencing the full weight of the pain all at once.
The glass may appear unexpectedly in the supermarket, at church, during a family gathering or even in the middle of a beautiful moment when we suddenly remember that the person we most want to share it with is no longer here.
We do not have to break the glass
When this distance appears, we do not need to demand that we snap out of it, force ourselves to feel grateful or push through until we appear normal again, because the part of us behind the glass may need companionship more than correction.
We can begin by gently naming what is happening: I feel far away today; my body may be protecting me; I do not have to solve this moment, and I can take one small step towards safety.
That step might be placing both feet on the floor, drinking some water, opening a window, holding something meaningful, writing one honest sentence, sitting beside a pet, contacting someone safe or offering God a prayer without searching for impressive words.
These small actions do not erase grief, but they can open a tiny door between us and the present moment, because we do not have to return to life in one brave leap; sometimes we return through small moments of connection, repeated gently and patiently.
Let someone sit beside you
On difficult days, it may help to tell someone, "I feel as though I am behind glass today, and I do not need you to fix it, but I would like you to stay close."
A safe person does not bang on the glass or demand that we come out; they sit nearby, tolerate the silence, offer practical help and remind us through their presence that connection is still possible, even when we cannot fully feel it.
If the disconnection becomes intense, frightening or persistent, or begins affecting everyday safety, reaching out to a doctor, counsellor or trauma-informed therapist is a wise act of care and not a failure of faith or strength.
Grace can reach us through the glass
Faith can also feel muted during grief, when prayers seem to reach only as far as the ceiling and God's presence is something we believe in more than something we can sense, but a lack of feeling is not the same as a lack of presence.
God is not confused by our numbness, disappointed by our exhaustion or waiting for us to become more spiritual before drawing near, and when all we can offer is a sigh, a tear or the quiet admission that we do not know how to pray, that honesty can itself become prayer.
Perhaps grace is not always the glass shattering dramatically, but light beginning to travel through it—a friend remembering, a song reaching us for a few seconds, a warm cup held between our hands or the strength to make it through one more ordinary afternoon.
If life feels as though it is happening on the other side of glass today, please remember that you are not broken, you are not grieving incorrectly and you are not failing because joy has not yet found its way through.
You are allowed to come back to yourself slowly, gently and with grace, one moment at a time.
A gentle reflection: What helps you feel connected to life again when grief leaves you feeling as though you are watching it through glass?
With grace,
Kylie
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