Room for Grief

The pace of life under capitalism, holding space, and processing loss.

I’ve started this post ten times and deleted every version. Maybe because there’s no right way to write about grief, especially when you’re still in it.

My mom passed away last Wednesday. It wasn’t unexpected. Her health had been in decline for many years, but the final moments came more quickly than I anticipated. And no matter how much time you think you’ve had to prepare, a loss like this still feels overwhelming.

It has been a week of holding space, then processing, then grieving. And now I feel myself settling into a deeper sorrow, one that’s slower and quieter but no less consuming. So I’m writing.

I’ve spent the last decade intentionally making space for family. I avoided full-time work to be more present: for visits, for care, for showing up. I spent my days doing slow, grounding things—gardening, baking bread, raising chickens, making time for the people I love. Then recently, I returned to full-time employment. The organization I work with is deeply meaningful, the people are wonderful, and the work matters. But the shift in priorities has been real. My days are now structured around work, and the time and energy I used to spend on family and home have been redirected elsewhere. My time is now scarce. My mental space is filled with deadlines and emails and productivity.

Walking into last week, I wasn’t prepared to lose her. Which feels ironic—because for years, I was preparing to hold space for exactly this. Not for her death, but for her life. For care. For presence.

I still did those things after going back to work, but they became harder. More of a squeeze. And I hate admitting this, but they also became less of a priority. I feel a lot of shame around that. I miss the version of my life where this kind of slow care was not just possible but central.

Last Sunday, her health took a turn. It became clear she wasn’t going to recover. And even though I knew what mattered, I still felt torn—between my family and my work responsibilities. That conflict made me angry. Why should this even be a question? Why couldn’t I just drop everything and be with her?

This broken system we live in—this economic model that treats time as money and bodies as resources—does not allow for the fullness of being human. Even in workplaces that offer time off, the internal pressure doesn’t go away. Capitalism doesn’t just expect us to be dedicated to our jobs; it demands that we internalize that dedication so completely that we feel guilty for stepping away, even when someone we love is dying.

We’re told to aim for work-life balance, but it’s a myth. The idea that we can leave our jobs at the door and be fully present elsewhere just isn’t how most of our minds work. So we search for meaningful jobs, hoping they’ll justify the space they take up. But even meaningful work can crowd out everything else.

I know it doesn’t have to be this way. For years, I lived differently. I lived slower. I had space to rest, to care, to pay attention. My nervous system was more regulated. My relationships were richer. And as I sit with this grief now, I can feel my whole body longing for that life again.

Even when I’m not actively grieving, I can feel the impact. My focus drifts. My body needs more sleep. I struggle to make decisions. I’m not in a state that anyone would describe as “productive.” I’m lucky to work with people who understand that and are making space for me to move through this. But I know how rare that is for most people.

So here I am, trying to make space for myself the way I would for others. Trying to be quiet. Trying to let myself feel what’s here without forcing it into a tidy lesson or an efficient timeline.

There’s more I could say—about capitalism, burnout, my mom. But for now, I’ll leave you with this: we deserve to live in a world where grief doesn’t have to be wedged between meetings. Where care isn’t something we have to justify. Where making space for the people we love, and for ourselves, isn’t a luxury but a given.