Grief is one of the deepest and most disorienting wounds the human heart can endure. It dismantles our sense of normalcy, reshapes our identity, and forces us to reimagine a life without the presence of those we once held dear. For many Nigerians, grieving is both a private storm and a public performance—where tradition demands silence, strength, and composure, even as our hearts scream from within.

As a grief coach and a mental health nurse practitioner, I have journeyed with countless others through their darkest valleys. And I’ve seen a recurring pattern—people who, years or even decades after their loss, remain emotionally anchored to the day they said goodbye. This is not about fleeting sadness or lifelong remembrance. It’s about an emotional state where grief becomes so embedded in one’s identity that healing feels like betrayal. This is what I call the hidden trap of forever grieving.

In Nigeria, we often romanticize sorrow as a way of honouring the dead. The more you cry, the more you’re seen as having truly loved. People whisper in funerals, “She’s really mourning,” as if external expressions of pain are the only proof of affection. But there’s a thin and dangerous line between honouring our loved ones and clinging to our suffering. When grief becomes a permanent monument, it stops being a memory and starts becoming a prison.

Many who are caught in this emotional loop believe that letting go of grief means letting go of the person. They fear that laughter is disloyal, that joy means forgetting. So they create a shrine in their heart—not of the person they lost, but of the pain itself. Their suffering becomes sacred, untouchable, and unconsciously, it becomes who they are.

There’s a clinical term for this condition: Prolonged Grief Disorder (PGD), now recognised in the DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders). Studies by Prigerson et al. (2009) estimate that about 7–10% of bereaved individuals experience this kind of long-term, disruptive grief. Unlike healthy mourning—which evolves over time—PGD traps individuals in a psychological quicksand. They are alive, but not living. Functioning, but not thriving.

In many Nigerian homes, grief is never fully processed. We are expected to “be strong” and “move on quickly,” especially in the face of economic responsibilities, family pressures, and societal expectations. A man loses his wife and returns to work in a week. A widow is told not to cry too much so she doesn’t attract “bad luck.” A grieving parent is advised to have another child “to replace the one that died.” These are everyday conversations that reflect a dangerous cultural denial of grief.

But there’s another painful layer to this issue—the comfort in staying broken. Over time, sorrow can begin to feel familiar. It becomes the one constant in a life that has otherwise changed beyond recognition. And some people fear healing not because they can’t, but because they’re not sure who they’ll be without their grief. They wonder, “If I’m no longer ‘the grieving widow,’ what will I be known for?” or “If I’m no longer broken, will people still check on me, still care, still understand?”

We must also acknowledge how society reinforces this emotional trap. Phrases like “You never get over it,” or “Grief never ends, it just changes,” although well-intentioned, are often interpreted as permission to stay stuck. But grief should evolve—it should deepen our humanity, not paralyse our hope.

A deeply rooted, often unspoken fear among those who never heal is the guilt of survival. People worry that healing is evidence of indifference. They ask themselves, “Does smiling again mean I didn’t love them enough?” “Will rebuilding my life mean I’ve forgotten?” These thoughts are rarely vocalised, but they quietly dictate emotional choices, creating a cycle of self-inflicted pain.

Healing, however, does not require forgetting. It does not demand that we replace our loved ones or erase their memory. Healing is about carrying their love forward in ways that continue to give us life. It means choosing to honour their legacy not through endless mourning, but through the courage to live again, love again, and laugh without guilt.

Breaking free from this cycle begins with challenging the story you tell yourself about grief. If your narrative is that “grief means never smiling again,” it’s time to rewrite that story. Ask yourself who you are beyond the pain. What dreams have you shelved since your loss? What passions have you buried along with your loved one? Rediscovering those parts of yourself isn’t dishonouring the dead—it’s honouring the living.

You don’t have to walk this path alone. Seek help. In a country like Nigeria, where therapy is still misunderstood, it takes bravery to reach out to a grief coach, a psychologist, or a support group. But it is precisely that kind of vulnerability that births strength. Grief may be inevitable, but prolonged suffering is not.

As someone who has walked this road, I speak from experience. There was a time when I thought I would never breathe without pain again. But I made a conscious choice not to let grief be the end of my story. I chose to carry the memory of my loved ones not as a weight, but as a light. And that decision changed everything.

If this article resonates with you, share your thoughts in the comments or send a message. And if you feel stuck in grief, know that you don’t have to carry it alone. At Dazzling Grit, we walk with you until your heart begins to hope again.