When Gratitude and Sadness Sit Side by Side

I recently met a friend, and in one of those rare and beautiful moments, we instantly recognized something in each other—similar stories of family pain. The kind that lingers quietly beneath the surface. The kind shaped by the ache of estranged siblings, the loss of parents, and the complex terrain of loving people who couldn’t always love you back in the ways you needed.

At first, I was cautious. I didn’t want to trauma bond or overshare. But as we exchanged stories, we didn’t spiral—we softened. We became steady witnesses for each other’s pain. And what I’ve come to understand—both personally and through the lens of psychology—is how essential that kind of relational safety is.

When you come from a fractured or emotionally unpredictable family system, it’s easy to internalize the pain as a personal flaw. But this is actually a common response rooted in early attachment dynamics. According to attachment theory, when we grow up without consistent attunement or emotional safety, we often develop adaptive behaviors to protect ourselves—like hyper-independence, emotional suppression, or shame around our needs.

So when sadness creeps in—especially during moments that seem “normal” for others—it can feel like too much, or like you’re too much.

That’s where relational healing becomes so powerful. My friend didn’t try to fix me. She just offered presence. And that co-regulation—the process of being soothed in the presence of another nervous system—is actually a core part of how we rewire our emotional responses and learn to feel safe again in connection.

She helps me ground. Not with advice, but with understanding. And that soft, steady acceptance lets me feel through the pain instead of avoiding it or judging myself for it.

I used to think I was an over-sharer. Too emotional. Too deep. But this friendship reminded me: real connection isn’t about performing wellness or only showing the “healed” parts of yourself. It’s about finding a space where you can land fully—and from there, take a breath.

That breath is everything. A pause where I get to feel, and then choose. Choose to hold compassion for myself. Choose to let the moment pass without defining me. Choose to keep moving forward with tenderness.

Because the only way out is still through.

Psychologically, grief doesn’t follow a straight line—and family grief in particular is often ambiguous and layered. There’s even a term for this: ambiguous loss, coined by Dr. Pauline Boss, to describe grief without closure. When the people we’ve lost are still alive—but estranged or emotionally unavailable—it creates a unique kind of mourning that’s hard to name.

My friend said something I won’t forget:

“You know what? I may just be sad about my family for the rest of my life. It just may always be there… and in that acceptance, I let myself be okay being sad for a minute.”

There’s so much wisdom there. In accepting that the sadness doesn’t need to be solved. It just needs space to exist.

For me, there’s deep gratitude that I married into a big, beautiful family—and there’s sadness too. Because while I get to witness and participate in that kind of connection, it’s not mine in the way I once longed for. And that brings up old patterns and grief. But it also gives me practice—practice in belonging, in softening, in receiving.

There’s grief in never having maternal guidance—how to be a wife, a mother, a nurturer. And yet I offer myself grace. Grace for not knowing. Grace for learning as I go.

And here comes the “AND”:

I’m so grateful my daughter has what I didn’t.

She knows a mother’s love. She’s surrounded by safety. Her nervous system is learning to trust.

And I’m still healing. Still learning to love myself. Still learning to be loved by others.

So I honor this friend. This rare connection that mirrors back to me something I didn’t know I was still aching for: to be seen and understood, without having to explain too much.

This is healing in motion.

Gratitude and sadness. Side by side.

And I keep grounding into self.

Grounding into now.

Letting the feelings pass through—not as problems, but as messengers.

Because they are either letting go, healing, or helping me accept what is.

That's all for now.

xo- Julie