The Well of Grief

What is Grief

Grief is a natural and deeply human emotion, something every one of us will experience in different ways throughout our lives. We often associate grief with the death of a loved one, and while that is one of the most profound experiences of grief, it is by no means the only one.

Grief arises in any area of life where there has been a cost. Where something of value has been lost, shifted, or left unfulfilled. That cost may come through sudden trauma, or it may appear slowly, through subtle transitions that don’t appear worthy of grief on the surface, yet still deeply impact the soul.

Often, these quieter losses go unrecognised because they don’t match our traditional understanding of grief. They show up in moments we might not immediately name as loss, like the end of a season, the fading of a dream, the ache of unmet needs. Yet, they leave their mark on our heart all the same. These moments deserve the same compassion, space, and permission to be processed as any major bereavement.

Over time, when these costs go unnamed, unfelt, or unacknowledged, they begin to fill the well of grief within us. Like any well left untended, it can grow deep, still, and heavy. But healing begins when we start to name the losses, especially the ones we tried to minimise or explain away. In doing so, we make space for restoration.

And this is where the compassion of Jesus meets us. He gently draws near, not with pressure, but with quiet compassion.

Grief Lies

The trouble with grief is that it speaks its own truth. It doesn’t simply sit quietly in the background. It whispers:

"If you feel it, it will consume you."

"There’s no hope beyond this loss."

"No one understands what you’re going through."

These whispers feel convincing, but they are not the truth. They are fear disguised as protection, and when we believe them, they lead us into one of two unhealthy responses.

Denying Grief

When we deny grief, we often do so by hiding it behind self-protection. We may not even realise we’re doing it. We just don’t want to feel the ache, face the sadness, or risk the vulnerability that grief asks of us. So we shut it down, distract ourselves, spiritualise our emotions, or bury them beneath layers of strength and survival.

This self-protection can silence grief for a time, but it never fully erases it. We may still feel the waves of heaviness, sadness, or weariness but not understand where they’re coming from. It’s like locking grief behind a wall we built to feel safe and then forgetting what we hid there in the first place. But even behind the wall, grief doesn’t disappear. It lingers. It waits. And it continues to make itself known in our bodies, our emotions, and even our relationships, often in ways we don’t connect to the original loss.

Self-protection may feel like wisdom in the moment. It tells us we’re just being strong, just pushing through, just keeping it together. But while it may shield us from the full force of our pain temporarily, it also shields us from what we need in order to heal.

Self-protection not only prevents us from feeling what needs to be felt, it also prevents Jesus from having access to the very places where His healing touch is most needed. When we lock away our grief, we are often unintentionally locking Him out of that part of our heart.

Jesus is kind, and He will never force His way past our defences. Yet, He is also persistent in His love. He stands patiently at the door of our hidden places, gently knocking, waiting to be invited into the pain we’ve buried. Into the cost we’ve silenced. Into the wounds we’ve tried to forget.

True healing begins when we surrender self-protection and let Him into the places we’ve guarded most fiercely. He does not come to shame us for hiding. He comes to heal what we were never meant to carry.

He heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds. (Psalm 147:3)

Dwelling in Grief

When we dwell in grief, we do more than acknowledge our pain, we begin to take up residence in it. Instead of passing through grief with Jesus, we sit down in it and build our identity around it. We allow grief to shape the way we see ourselves, others, and even God.

This is where the victim mindset can quietly take root.

The victim mindset doesn’t necessarily start with self-pity. It often begins with real pain that was never acknowledged or validated. It forms when suffering is left unprocessed and grief is never walked through to healing. Over time, the person begins to see life through their pain. Every disappointment confirms their belief that they are powerless, overlooked, or doomed to suffer. Their past becomes a lens that filters their future.

Grief, when left to rule unchecked, starts to speak identity:

"This happened to you because you’re not enough."

"You’ll never be okay."

"Others move on, but you always get left behind."

"God didn’t show up for you. Why would He now?"

These inner agreements begin to shape how a person shows up in the world. Hope feels dangerous. Trust feels naive. Joy feels unreachable. Life becomes something merely to survive, not something to embrace. Even love can feel threatening, because if you are defined by your wounds, healing might feel like losing a part of yourself.

But grief was never meant to be a home. It was never meant to define us. It’s a valley we pass through, not a name we take on.

Jesus meets us in that valley. Not with shame for being there, but with an invitation to come out from under it. He never minimises the pain, but He gently reminds us that this is not our identity. This is not the end of your story.

He speaks a better word over us. A word of hope. A word of freedom. A word of restoration.

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you..." (Isaiah 43:1-2)

The victim mindset keeps us chained to past loss, but Jesus restores our identity and reclaims our future. He leads us through grief and into healing. Not by denying what happened, but by redeeming what was lost.

Heart of Compassion

Jesus does not stand at a distance from our sorrow. He does not hurry us through it or tell us to get over it. He draws us near with a heart full of gentleness and understanding. He knows the weight of grief intimately. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with suffering (Isaiah 53:3). He has walked the road of grief, and He walks it with us.

When Jesus stands at the edge of our well of grief, He doesn’t recoil from its depth. He gazes into it with love, not judgement. With tenderness, not pressure. He sees what we’ve lost, what has broken us, what we’ve hidden out of fear or shame. His response is not to condemn, but to weep with us.

Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

In that moment at Lazarus’ tomb, Jesus knew resurrection was coming. Yet, He stopped and allowed Himself to feel the full weight of human grief. He did not rush past it. He entered it, because that is who He is, a Saviour who mourns with those who mourn, who sits with us in the ashes before lifting us into healing.

His compassion is not impatient. It doesn’t demand we tidy ourselves up before coming to Him. Instead, it invites us to come as we are: raw, hurting, unsure. To trust that He will meet us in our pain with mercy and presence.

This is where restoration begins. Not in fixing ourselves, but in being found by the One who loves us in our grief and offers to carry what we cannot.

Coming Out of Grief

So how do we begin to come out from the weight of grief and the identity it tries to speak over us?

It starts with surrender. Surrendering self-protection.

Self-protection can look different depending on how we’ve responded to grief. For those who have denied grief, that wall of protection is built to keep the pain out. We disconnect from our feelings, distract ourselves, or bury the ache because it feels too risky to feel. The wall keeps us numb, but not truly free.

For those who have dwelled in grief, the wall becomes something else. It’s built to keep people out. Sometimes even to keep God out. We guard our sorrow so fiercely that it becomes part of who we are, and we fear that if we let others in, they will dismiss it, try to fix it, or leave us altogether. And so we retreat inward, allowing grief to define us while shielding ourselves from intimacy.

Whether we are denying grief or dwelling in it, self-protection blocks healing.

Jesus will not force His way through that wall. He waits patiently and faithfully until we are ready to open the door. Until we are willing to say, "Jesus, I surrender self-protection and invite You to go wherever You need to go."

We may not know where He wants to begin, and that’s okay. We don’t need to. He already sees every layer of pain, every unspoken loss, every lie we’ve come into agreement with. He knows how to bring healing, and He is kind in how He leads us.

This is why we must go through the doorway of grief. Not to wallow, but to allow Jesus access to the places that still ache. Beneath the surface of our grief often lie the deepest lies we believe—about ourselves, about others, and about God. Lies that have shaped our identity, stolen our joy, and quietly distanced us from intimacy with Him.

When Jesus steps into our pain, everything begins to shift.

We may find ourselves crying tears we didn’t know we had been holding back. Healing tears that don’t come from despair but from the relief of being seen, known, and met with love.

Sometimes Jesus will uncover a heart wound that He will take us to process. Sometimes He will expose lies that have been quietly shaping how we see the world or ourselves. Either way, He does not leave us in our pain. He leads us through it.

When He reveals what needs healing, Jesus brings His truth in a beautiful exchange.

The Beautiful Exchange

This exchange is not transactional. It is transformational. Jesus does not simply take away our pain and hand us a lesson. He offers Himself. In place of sorrow, He gives comfort. In place of heaviness, He offers hope. In the space where lies once spoke shame, fear, and despair, He speaks truth that restores identity, worth, and belonging.

He trades our ashes for beauty. Our mourning for joy. Our despair for a garment of praise (Isaiah 61:3). This is not poetic metaphor, it is a promise. And it is fulfilled not by our effort, but by His presence.

Grief may have written a chapter in your story, but it is not the whole story. The final word belongs to the One who conquered death, who binds up the broken-hearted, who calls you by name and says, “You are Mine.”

Healing does not erase what was lost, but it restores what grief tried to steal, your voice, your hope, your joy, and your ability to love and be loved again.

You are not alone in your grief. You are not forgotten in your sorrow. And you are not disqualified from healing.

Let Him in. Let Him speak. Let Him trade what you were never meant to carry for what you were always meant to receive.

His love is waiting, and restoration is already unfolding.