Allowing Yourself to Grieve the Life You Thought You’d Live…

WHILST LEARNING TO LOVE THE LIFE YOU’RE IN

There was a time I couldn’t look at a nappy advert without something inside me tightening. I had imagined a different life. A louder, busier house and arms that didn’t feel so empty.

My story is shaped by infertility — the long, quiet ache of a dream that never arrived. And for a long time, I didn’t feel I was allowed to grieve something that never tangibly existed. After all, there was no funeral, just the deep knowing that the life I had imagined would never come.

And yet… the grief was and still is real. I’ve just returned from our annual summer break away, we always go to the same place every year, its simple, homely, a place we’re so fond of where you can instantly fall into the holiday rhythm. This place has been with us through thick and thin, a place to run to after failed attempts at IVF and a place to dream of being able to bring an extra little plus one to the following year.

This year, as we settled into the holiday rhythm, I was overwhelmed with grief. I couldn’t quite make sense of what I was feeling at first, it seemingly came out of nowhere. I immediately tried to push the feelings away… why now? I’m on holiday in a place that I love! But then I reminded myself to FEEL, as simple as that. I spoke it out loud, I wrote it down, I listened and moved my body and I gave it the space it needed to seen. I rode the wave until it dispersed.

This is a kind of grief no one talks about

Grief doesn’t only follow death. Sometimes, grief shows up when the life you thought you’d live slips out of reach.

Maybe you pictured a family that didn’t come, a career that never took off,
a love that never found you, a family life that included a partner to share the load with, a version of yourself you expected to become — and didn’t.

It’s a quiet grief. Often invisible, sometimes even hard to identify by ourselves.  And because it isn’t widely acknowledged, many people push it down or minimize it. They say things like:

“Other people have it worse.”
“I should be grateful for what I have.”
“I should be over it.”

But unacknowledged grief doesn’t go away. It gets stored — in our hearts, in our bodies, in our nervous systems. It becomes tension, anxiety, fatigue, even chronic physical pain. We end up carrying the weight of what we never allowed ourselves to feel.

But the thing is, you are allowed to grieve what never happened.

You don’t have to wait for permission.
You don’t have to justify why your sadness matters.
You are allowed to feel it — even if no one else understands it, even when you can’t make sense of it sometimes.

Grieving the life you imagined doesn’t mean you’re giving up, it doesn’t mean you’re weak, it doesn’t mean you’re not grateful for the life you are living. It means you’re honouring the truth of your experience and the emotions that rightfully came with it. And that kind of truth is powerful. It creates space.

You can grieve and still find joy again

You can mourn the child you didn’t have — and still feel deep peace in a quiet home.
You can miss the dream — and still find beauty in your reality.
You can carry sadness — and still make space for joy.

I’ve learned that healing doesn’t always mean “moving on.”
Sometimes it means moving with — with tenderness, with intention, with compassion for all that could have been.

In my work, I support people in releasing the emotional weight they’ve been carrying — grief, guilt, resentment, self-blame — using tools like EFT (Emotional Freedom Technique), Reiki, and Root Cause work.

These tools aren’t about “fixing” you.
They’re about creating safety, calm, and space — so your body and mind can begin to acknowledge what’s been trapped inside.

You are not alone

If any part of this resonated with you, I want you to know: your grief matters. Even if no one sees it. Even if you’re still trying to name it. Even if you’ve kept it silent for years.

You are not broken. You are human.
And it is possible to both honour the life you hoped for…
and reconnect with the beauty of the life you are living now.

I'm here to hold space for that journey.

 Michelle x