When Grief Doesn’t Knock, It Breaks the Door Down

There are seasons in life where pain arrives politely. It gives you a warning. It softens the blow. You sense it coming and you brace yourself.

And then there are seasons like this one.

No warning. No mercy. No pause to breathe.

In the span of a short time, death hit my family twice, both from my father’s side, both connected to a country that has never known peace the way it deserves to. My young cousin, a life that barely had time to unfold, was caught in the crossfire of conflict in Iran. Shortly after, my paternal uncle passed away. Two losses. One after the other. No space to process the first before the second arrived.

Grief did not knock. It broke the door down.

Living far away does not protect you from loss. If anything, distance sharpens it. You grieve not only the people, but the fact that you cannot be there. You cannot sit on the floor with family. You cannot attend funerals. You cannot touch foreheads, hold hands, or whisper goodbye.

This is not a political post. This is not an analysis of regimes or power. This is a human post. A family post. A grief post.

And this is what that grief has looked like inside my body, my faith, and my habits.

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When Loss Comes in Waves, Not Singles

There is a saying that bad luck comes in threes. Or twos. Or clusters. Or however many God decides you can handle before you feel like you might collapse.

I do not know why loss stacks itself the way it does. I only know that it does.

First, my cousin. Young. Innocent. Caught in violence he did not create, did not deserve, and could not escape. A name added to a long list of lives swallowed by unrest and instability in Iran. When I heard the news, my body reacted before my mind could. My chest tightened. My appetite disappeared. Sleep became shallow and fragmented.

Then, before the grief could even settle into something recognizable, my uncle passed away. My father’s brother. Another pillar gone. Another crack in a family that has already endured displacement, trauma, and silence for generations.

Grief compounds. It does not reset.

Each loss drags old pain back to the surface. It reminds you of everyone you have already lost. It reminds you that safety is an illusion. It reminds you how fragile family trees really are.

There is a unique heaviness when loss hits the same branch of the family. It feels targeted, even when you know it is not. It makes you ask questions that have no clean answers.

Why them. Why now. Why again.

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Carrying Iran in My Chest While Living Far Away

Iran is not just a place on a map for me. It is blood memory. It is inherited grief. It is stories whispered and stories never told. It is resilience passed down through generations that learned how to survive quietly.

When conflict erupts there, it does not feel distant. It feels personal. It feels like someone reached inside my chest and shook my heart.

There is a specific helplessness that comes with watching tragedy unfold in a country you love from afar. You refresh the news. You check messages. You wait for confirmation that your people are still alive. And when the confirmation comes too late, there is guilt layered into the grief.

Guilt for being safe.
Guilt for being far.
Guilt for continuing your life when theirs has stopped.

This kind of grief does not resolve quickly. It lingers in the background of everyday moments. It shows up while cooking dinner. While walking. While scrolling. While trying to be present.

It is quiet, but it is constant.

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Faith When You Have Nothing Else to Hold Onto

I will be honest. In moments like this, faith is not poetic. It is not soft. It is not Instagram friendly.

Faith is grip.

Right now, I am putting everything into God’s hands because I genuinely do not know what else to do. I am trusting Divine timing not because it makes sense, but because resisting it is exhausting me.

There is a verse that keeps returning to me, even when I am not searching for it.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

I do not feel saved yet. I do feel brokenhearted. And sometimes that is enough to keep going.

Another verse that grounds me is this.

“Be still, and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10

Stillness is hard when grief is loud. Stillness feels unnatural when your mind is racing and your body is holding stress like a clenched fist. But I am trying. Some days all I can do is whisper prayers instead of speaking them clearly.

Faith does not mean I understand why my cousin died. Faith does not mean I am at peace with my uncle being gone. Faith means I am choosing not to drown in the why.

And some days, that choice is the only thing keeping me afloat.

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Stress, Survival, and the Return of Binge Eating

Grief does not just live in the mind. It lives in the body.

And my body has responded the way it always has under extreme stress. By reaching for food.

I am binge eating again.

I wish I could dress that up. I cannot.

When loss piles up, my nervous system looks for relief. Food has always been the fastest way to quiet the noise. It numbs. It distracts. It gives a temporary sense of comfort when nothing else feels stable.

I know this pattern well. I am not ashamed of it, but I am aware of it. Stress eating is not a lack of discipline. It is a coping mechanism formed in survival mode.

Grief spikes cortisol. Cortisol disrupts hunger cues. Emotional pain demands regulation. And for some of us, food becomes the regulator.

This is not me failing. This is my body trying to protect me the only way it knows how.

The difference now is awareness. I am not pretending it is not happening. I am not hiding it. I am naming it. And naming something is often the first step toward gentleness instead of punishment.

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Living, Writing, and Letting People See the Cracks

This blog is not here to be polished. It is here to be honest.

This is a glimpse into my life during a season I would never choose but must walk through anyway. I am still parenting. Still working. Still showing up. But I am doing it with grief in my pocket and faith in my hand.

Some days I feel strong. Other days I feel hollow. Both can exist at the same time.

If you are reading this and carrying your own grief, especially from afar, especially tied to family and homeland, know this. You are not weak for struggling. You are not broken for leaning on what brings you comfort. You are human.

And if you are putting your faith in God right now without understanding His timing, you are not alone in that either.

Grief does not mean the absence of hope. Sometimes it is simply hope that has not found its footing yet.

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Closing Words From a Place of Love and Loss

I do not know what healing looks like yet. I only know that I am allowing myself to feel instead of rushing to fix. I am trusting God even when my trust feels fragile. And I am writing because silence makes grief heavier.

If this post resonates, if it reflects something you are living through, you are welcome to reach out. We should not carry these things alone.

Recommended Support Tools

Grief, stress, and emotional overload do not come with instructions. Sometimes, having a physical tool can help anchor what feels overwhelming inside the body and mind.

If you are navigating loss, heightened anxiety, or emotional exhaustion, this is one resource that has felt grounding for me during this season.

🕊️ Guided Grief Journal or Healing After Loss Journal

Writing has been one of the few ways I can slow my thoughts down when everything feels heavy. A guided grief journal offers structure without pressure. You do not have to know what to say. You just show up and let the page hold it.

This is not about fixing grief or rushing healing. It is about giving yourself a safe place to release what you are carrying.

👉 View the journal here Duncan & Stone Grief Journal

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