Lori Stalcar

Grief Is Like the Ocean

Over the past month, I have sat with profound loss.

I have lost two clients. I have also walked alongside others navigating suicide loss, violent death, and unexpected ruptures in relationships that altered the course of their lives overnight. Bearing witness to so much sorrow in such a short span of time has left me reflecting deeply on what grief really is — and what it asks of us.

Grief is not linear.

It is not tidy.

It does not follow timelines or productivity standards.

Grief is like the ocean.

I recently shared this metaphor with a client, and it has stayed with me.

Sometimes grief feels like standing ankle-deep at the shoreline. The waves are small. They gently lap at your ankles. You feel the coolness — the awareness of absence — but you are steady. You can breathe. You can look around. You can function.

If you lift your eyes to the horizon — if you allow your mind to hold both the ache and the love — you begin to see something else. The vastness. The beauty. The way the water reflects light. The memories of the person you love shimmer there.

The ocean is not just loss. It is connection.

And then there are storms.

There are times when we know death is coming. Illness has progressed. The body is tired. We have had conversations. We have said what needed to be said. In those moments, we may think we are prepared. We watch the clouds gather on the horizon. We brace ourselves.

And yet when the wave finally crashes, it still knocks us down.

Anticipatory grief does not cancel the impact. Knowing does not soften love.

Then there are other losses — sudden, breath-stealing, without warning. Suicide. Murder. A betrayal that fractures trust. A phone call that splits life into before and after. One moment the water is calm, and the next a towering wave rises and crashes over you.

These are the waves that leave you disoriented, gasping, unsure of which way is up.

Both are grief.

Both are love.

Both deserve space.

In those moments when the ocean is storming — whether slowly building or violently sudden — it can feel like it will never settle. A scent. A song. A date on the calendar. A silence where a voice used to be. The waves surge again.

But storms, by nature, pass.

The horizon remains — even when you cannot see it.

Grief will surge. It will recede. It will surprise you. It will exhaust you. It will also soften over time. The waves do not disappear, but they change. They become less violent, more rhythmic. You learn where you can stand. You learn when to float. You learn that being overtaken does not mean being destroyed.

I know this not only as a therapist, but as a mother. The ocean has taught me that love does not end when a life does. It transforms. The horizon becomes both memory and meaning. The waves become reminders of depth — of a life that mattered profoundly.

We do not grieve deeply unless we have loved deeply.

Grief is not something we “get over.”

It is something we learn to stand within.

If you are standing in the waves right now, keep your eyes on the horizon. Let the storm move through you. It always will.

And if you are walking beside someone who is grieving, remember: you do not have to calm the ocean. You only have to stand with them until the water settles.

— Lori Ellen Stalcar, LPC

Over the past several months, I’ve been investing in a different kind of development — one that doesn’t show up on a résumé but influences everything I do: self-discovery.

I’ve been uncovering old pain I didn’t realize I had carried into my work, my relationships, and my decision-making. Recognizing it has been both uncomfortable and empowering. Growth often begins with acknowledging what we’ve buried.

What I am learning is that letting go is rarely a single breakthrough moment. More often, it is incremental — small shifts in mindset, small acts of courage, small releases that accumulate over time. Quiet progress still changes us.

This process has reminded me that personal clarity fuels professional clarity. When we understand ourselves more deeply, we lead with greater intention. We collaborate with more empathy. We create with stronger boundaries and a clearer purpose.

Influence is not only about visibility or title; it is about alignment. The more aligned we are within ourselves, the more grounded and effective we become in the spaces we serve.

If you are navigating your own version of this work, I hope you give yourself permission to move through it gradually. Progress is still progress — even when it is quiet.

Over the past several months, I’ve been investing in a different kind of development—one that doesn’t show up on a résumé but influences everything I do: self-discovery.

I’ve been uncovering old pain I didn’t realize I had carried into my work, my relationships, and my decision-making. Recognizing it has been both uncomfortable and empowering. Growth often begins by acknowledging what we’ve buried.

What I’m learning is that letting go is rarely a single breakthrough moment. More often, it’s incremental—small shifts in mindset, small acts of courage, small releases that accumulate over time. Quiet progress still transforms us.

This process has reminded me that personal clarity fuels professional clarity. When we understand ourselves more deeply, we lead with greater intention. We collaborate with more empathy. We create with stronger boundaries and clearer purpose.

Influence is not only about visibility or title; it’s about alignment. The more aligned we are within ourselves, the more grounded and effective we become in the spaces we serve.

If you’re navigating your own version of this work, I hope you give yourself permission to move through it gradually. Progress is still progress—even when it’s quiet.