On Grief and Loss

My dear friend,

I am looking at the candle tonight. It is melting unevenly, its light trembling as if it is crying. I have seen it flicker before, but tonight it feels different. The wax slides down its side slowly, like tears that do not rush to fall. I was not planning to write this evening. I thought I would just sit quietly, maybe listen to something, maybe not think at all. But my thoughts kept circling back to one message, one loss, one person. So I decided to write. Maybe if I put the words down, it will help me breathe through the weight of this moment.

I received the message this morning. A colleague, a friend, someone I respected deeply, is gone. A car accident. He had gone home on a short break after several months of fieldwork, responding to emergencies, moving from one crisis to another, leading teams with calm and heart. He was one of those people who rarely paused, always in motion, always ready to go where others would hesitate. He carried both gentleness and courage in the same breath.

And now, just like that, he is gone.

We worked together in Nigeria for a year. Long days, long nights, planning, managing, laughing in between the chaos. We stayed in the same office, and in the same house. I still remember how he spoke to everyone, no matter their role, with the same respect. When he smiled, it carried warmth that made you believe things would be fine, even when they were not. Later, we both moved on to different assignments, different countries, different storms. But we kept in touch. Small messages, short updates, familiar words like, “Stay safe, my brother.” Sometimes months would pass, then one of us would write again, as if no time had gone by at all.

We met again in Copenhagen once, after years of fieldwork. I remember that conversation clearly. We walked for hours. We spoke about life after crises, about leadership, about what it means to keep moving from one emergency to another without losing your soul. He said he wanted to take a break someday, to breathe, to rest. And now, he will rest forever.

I have been sitting with that memory all day, feeling confused, heavy, and still. There is sadness, but also disbelief, as if part of my mind refuses to accept what my heart already knows. I am writing to you, and maybe to myself, to make sense of what still feels impossible to understand.

Loss is one of the few things in life that never gets easier. Each time it arrives, it reshapes you. It takes something you once held close and replaces it with silence. I have lost people before, in war, in work, in the quiet distance that life sometimes builds between souls. Yet every loss feels new, because every person holds a different place within you. Some take pieces of your past, others take pieces of your future. This one took both.

Loss begins as shock. A message. A phone call. A moment that splits your day in two. Before and after. Then comes the emptiness, the attempt to go about your day as if the world has not changed. But it has. You move slower. You speak less. You look at your hands and wonder how something so final can happen so quietly.

And then grief arrives. It does not knock. It settles inside you like fog. It makes everything quieter, heavier, slower. It moves into your body and mind without asking permission. Grief is not loud; it is patient. It teaches you in silence. It makes you remember things you thought you had forgotten. The tone of their voice. The way they laughed. The way they looked at you during a meeting when everything was going wrong, and you both smiled because that was all you could do.

Grief also brings questions that no one can answer. Why him? Why now? Why does it happen to the good ones? You think about the roads he took, the choices, the timing, as if logic could soften the loss. But grief is not logical. It is love with no place to go. It is the echo that remains when presence disappears.

When I lose someone, I try to meet grief with small rituals. I light a candle, as I did tonight. I speak their name out loud. I tell them, thank you. Sometimes I play the songs we both knew, or I look at old photos, or reread messages we once exchanged. I let myself remember without rushing. I also write, like now, because grief is too heavy to carry in silence. Writing gives it shape. It allows me to hold it without drowning in it.

Grief teaches humility. It reminds us that we are not in control. That life can change in a second. It also teaches tenderness, because after losing, you begin to see how fragile everyone is. The people you love are not permanent. The ones you lead, work with, argue with, or even take for granted, they are all temporary. The moments we waste on pride or silence look different after loss. So different.

Grief teaches you to slow down. To say kind words while there is still time. To answer the message. To tell people they matter. To send the photo. To forgive sooner. To care more deeply. We often think we have endless time, but we don’t. The truth is, no one really knows which goodbye is the last.

Today, I tried to work, but my mind wandered. I thought about him leading his teams, driving through dusty roads, always calm even in crisis. I thought about the people who looked up to him, the ones who will now lead because of what they learned from him. I thought about his family, the ones waiting for his return, who now wait for something that will never arrive.

And I thought about us, the ones who stay behind. The ones who carry grief like a hidden scar, moving from one assignment to another, one city to the next. We are trained to adapt, to continue, to focus on what is next. But sometimes, what we really need is to stop and honor what was lost.

My friend, grief, I am learning, is not an enemy. It is a teacher. It asks you to sit with love that has changed form. It teaches patience. It demands presence. It does not want to be fixed, only felt. And if you let it, it becomes a quiet reminder that you once lived fully enough to care deeply.

So my friend, if you are reading this and carrying your own loss, I hope you know this: grief does not mean weakness. It means you dared to love, to connect, to give yourself to something real. Let grief move through you, but do not let it turn you cold. Let it make you gentler. Let it teach you how to listen more, to love better, to be here, truly here.

Light a candle. Speak their name. Continue their kindness. That is how love outlives loss.

Tonight, as the candle melts beside me, its light feels both fragile and strong. The flame trembles but does not die. Maybe that is what grief really is - a trembling light that keeps burning, even when the room is full of shadows.

With remembrance and gentleness,

Ali Al Mokdad