Finding Joy Amidst Grief: A Reflection on Loss and Light

It's hard to believe it's been a year already. Losing my dad has left a vacuum in my life that I feel deeply, every single day. It’s not just the empty chair or the quiet spaces left in my parents' house. It’s the thousands of questions I still want to ask him, the stories I wish I’d heard him tell one more time, and the kind of laughter that only he could pull from me. He was more than just my father—he was my friend, my guide, my idol. Some days, grief strikes with the thought, “How could you leave me?” The feeling comes out of nowhere, like a tidal wave that drowns me. Other days, there’s a quieter peace in knowing he’s not suffering anymore, that he left with his dignity intact. It feels unfair that we lost him when we did, but then again, is death ever really fair?

One of the greatest gifts my dad gave me was showing me how to embrace joy. He was full of life, always ready with a joke, always able to find something to laugh about, even in the midst of struggle. He taught me that joy didn’t have to be grand—it could live in the smallest of moments. Now, in his absence, I’m discovering how essential those lessons in joy have become. They help me navigate not only the grief I feel for him but also a broader disillusionment with the world.

This past year has been one of unimaginable losses, both personal and shared. Six weeks before my dad passed away, I was co-hosting a retreat in Portugal centred around the theme of joy. At that time, I was sure that joy could be a source of resilience, a steadying force that could anchor us even on our hardest days. But this past year has challenged that belief in ways I never expected. Watching the ongoing horror and unimaginable suffering in Gaza, I’ve felt torn between the joy my dad taught me to cherish and the guilt that any kind of happiness might be selfish or unfeeling when others are in such profound pain. And yet, joy has still found me—often in the smallest, simplest ways—and it has felt, in some ways, even more profound.

As I sit with the reality that it’s been nearly a year since losing my dad, a wave of emotions washes over me—grief, disbelief, and a painful reminder of how quickly time moves. This past year has been filled with deep sorrow, and yet there have been flashes of joy. It’s a paradox that is often hard to reconcile. Grieving his loss feels like a constant, unshakeable undercurrent, like a dull ache that lives somewhere at my core. And still, there have been these surprising, almost misplaced moments of beauty and laughter, moments that feel precious and unsettling all at once.

There’s also been a sense of guilt that has lingered with me, especially in those moments of joy. I sometimes wonder if I’m supposed to feel this way—if there’s a particular way grief is supposed to look, a solemn, unbroken sadness. But grief doesn’t adhere to a single expression or a linear path. It’s unpredictable. I’ve been caught off guard by sorrow in the most unexpected places and equally surprised by joy in moments I didn’t see coming.

Strangely, grief often seems to catch me when I expect peace. I’ve been in beautiful places, expecting calm or renewal—on holiday, or in quiet moments when I thought I’d find perspective—only to be overwhelmed by the intense reminder of his absence, wishing he were there to share it. At the same time, there are days when joy slips in gently, without warning, even amid my loss.

Navigating grief alongside witnessing the unfolding genocide in Gaza has only deepened this inner conflict. The devastation there feels like a constant weight, pressing against any experience of joy. In the first few months, each light moment feel laden with guilt, and often still does. Holding space for both grief and joy amidst such profound personal and global sorrow has forced me to confront what resilience really means and whether it’s truly possible to find light in times so dark.

Our last photo together - capturing that look of amusement we often shared. 

 Lessons in Joy and Gratitude from My Dad

Even as my dad faced illness, he held onto profound gratitude for life, often saying he’d lived a wonderful life and couldn’t ask for more. His perspective was a gift he passed on to me, showing me that joy isn’t just about celebrating the good times—it’s about finding light in the smallest, most ordinary moments, even when life feels unbearably heavy.

This past year, as I’ve grappled with both personal loss and the broader heartbreak of witnessing unimaginable suffering in Gaza, the idea of joy has sometimes felt distant, even inappropriate. Yet my dad’s approach to life echoes within me, reminding me that gratitude and joy aren’t simply privileges—they’re anchors. In moments of profound sorrow, I find myself returning to the simple gifts he cherished: the warmth of my children’s hugs, an unexpected laugh around the dinner table, or a peaceful walk under an open sky.

These moments, however fleeting, gently tether me to life. They remind me of my dad’s enduring lesson—that even in pain, there’s beauty to be found. His gratitude for life, despite everything, helps me hold onto purpose and connection, even when joy feels like a quiet whisper rather than a loud celebration.

On Joy, Gratitude & Connection

There’s a profound connection between joy and gratitude. When the world feels irrevocably broken, gratitude might seem almost absurd. And yet, I have learnt (the hard way) that it is essential—a lifeline that makes the impossible bearable. Across so many cultures and spiritual teachings, joy is viewed as a product of gratitude and connection, an undercurrent that can sustain us when life feels unendurable.

In Arab culture, gratitude is woven into our language. Alhamdulillah—giving thanks to God—is said in both good times and bad, a reminder that gratitude is not only for blessings but for life itself, in all its complexity. This past year, I’ve watched countless videos of people in Gaza, devastated by loss, and yet, amid their tears, I still hear them say alhamdulillah. It’s a lesson in resilience I will never forget: even in the deepest sorrow, gratitude finds a way to connect us to something larger, to keep us moored.

This lesson came at a time when I needed it most. Losing my dad shattered me, but within the grief, I found small moments of gratitude—not to escape my sadness but to coexist with it. Walking with my husband in the evenings immediately after my Dad died, feeling the cool air on my face, I was able to hold both sadness and gratitude. I was so thankful for the comfort of those who stood by us, for the ways my friends and family showed up, and even, oddly, for the time I spent isolated with my mum after contracting COVID. Those quiet days became a chance to sit with our collective grief, a strange and unexpected gift of stillness.

In the days leading up to my dad’s passing, we gathered by his bedside, surrounded by people who loved him and whom he loved deeply. Despite the overwhelming sadness, those days held some of the most beautiful, poignant moments of my life. When he finally let go, with his hand in mine and sunlight streaming into the room, he took his last breaths in peace. I feel profoundly honoured to have shared those final moments with him.

In that time, gratitude was the emotion that filled me most—surpassing even the grief. I felt grateful that he was my dad, that we shared such a rare and special bond, and that I had the strength to stay with him until the very end.

 Holding Opposing Feelings: The Subtle Presence of Joy

In times of profound grief, joy takes on a quieter form. It’s no longer a loud, carefree feeling; instead, it becomes a gentle, steady presence, often hidden within other emotions. This quieter joy might appear in a beautiful view, a shared laugh, or a moment of connection, even as it coexists with sadness. Learning to hold these opposing feelings has been a practice of its own—not choosing one over the other but allowing them to sit side by side, each one deepening the other.

Psychologist Barbara Fredrickson’s Broaden-and-Build Theory suggests that even brief positive emotions, like joy or gratitude, can broaden our perspective, helping us to build resilience. These small moments don’t erase the pain, but they offer brief respites, grounding us in the present. Grief, as I’ve come to understand, doesn’t require us to move on; it allows us to oscillate between loss and small moments of restoration.

In this way, grief heightens our sensitivity to life’s simplest, most precious details. The sound of waves crashing on the beach or the beauty of a sunset becomes more vivid, more meaningful. Joy doesn’t erase grief, but it offers us a way to acknowledge the beauty that persists, even in the darkest times. This subtle, quiet joy has become key for me, reminding me of life’s resilience and our capacity to find meaning, however small, in the shadow of loss.

Intentionality and Awareness

This year has been hard, not only because of my dad’s absence but because of the disillusionment I feel with the world around me. The ideals of human rights I once studied with such hope have become privileges reserved for the few. This realisation, along with my grief, has weighed heavily, narrowing my window of tolerance, making me feel overwhelmed by even small stresses, at times. My threshold for stress shrunk and often led me to overwhelm quicker than it had before.

As my tolerance for stress decreased, my mind became more easily drawn into a negative state, almost as if negativity had become the default. I became more likely to interpret my circumstances critically, creating a narrative that was often harsher than reality. Small challenges became exaggerated, leading me to believe that everything felt heavy rather than simply experiencing a difficult moment. This isn’t self-criticism; I know how easily these patterns emerge. But when I became aware of this shift, I knew I wanted things to look and feel different.

More recently, I have become more aware of my shrinking tolerance and the negative stories my mind was spinning, and so I’ve been working to redirect my focus. Now, I’m tyring to be intentional about seeking moments of awe, practicing gratitude, and mindfully checking my responses when negativity creeps in. This practice aligns with mindfulness theories that suggest intentional awareness can disrupt these negative states and broaden our perspective. By actively choosing to nurture a narrative of resilience, compassion, and small joys, I am slowly reclaiming a sense of groundedness and a more balanced outlook.

Embracing the Paradox of Grief and Joy

This year has shown me that grief and joy aren’t opposites—they can often exist in the same moment. Accepting this has been one of the hardest yet strangely significant parts of this experience. Before now, I couldn’t understand how joy could coexist with such deep loss. But I’ve come to realise that joy doesn’t erase grief, and grief doesn’t cancel out joy. They often sit side by side, each somehow making the other feel more real.

In The Prophet, Gibran Khalil Gibran writes, “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” His words capture the sense that grief and joy are not just able to coexist; they expand each other, carving out more space within us to hold both.

Letting both joy and sadness be present has become an ongoing practice for me—one that takes real intention and a willingness to sit with complex emotions without judgment. Early on, there were moments when a laugh slipped out or I caught a beautiful view, and there was this flash of joy, even in the middle of deep sadness. I’ve come to understand that these moments don’t take away from my grief, and they don’t mean I’m "moving on." They’re simply small reminders of life’s resilience—tiny bits of light that help me feel more connected to the full experience of being here.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, known for her work on the stages of grief, wrote, “The reality is that you will grieve forever…you will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same.” Her words capture the truth that while joy and healing are possible, grief fundamentally changes us. Joy and sorrow can coexist, each reshaping us in its own way, allowing us to live fully even as we carry our loss.

Honouring Joy and Grief: Finding Peace in Both

Through all of this, I still believe that joy is possible, even in dark times, though it may look different than I once imagined. Joy has become quieter, more subtle, showing up in tender moments that remind me to keep looking for beauty amidst loss. Yet it has also been vibrant, even intense at times—belly laughs and moments of true appreciation for the life I have. Loss has reminded me that life is for living and that we have a duty to savour and honour the world around us. I learned this from my dad, who always found joy even in the simplest things. To honour him now is to carry forward that lesson, to keep embracing life fully.

Self-compassion has been crucial in navigating this process. Allowing myself to feel both joy and sorrow without guilt or pressure has been so important. Self-compassion reminds me that it’s okay to experience joy without betraying my grief and to feel sadness without pushing away the light. This gentle acceptance softens the edges of both emotions, helping me be present with each, knowing that both have a place in my life.

For anyone navigating grief, hardship, or heavy emotions, I offer this encouragement: it’s okay to feel both. Joy doesn’t erase sorrow, and sorrow doesn’t take away from joy. They can coexist like shades of colour blending together, each bringing its own richness and depth, reminding us of our resilience and allowing us to live life in its fullest, most vibrant hues.