Many people who struggle with depression eventually find themselves asking the same question: Why does this keep happening?

Could unresolved grief be contributing to your depression? In many cases, the answer is yes.

At the start of therapy, most women aren't only thinking about themselves. They're thinking about their relationships too.

The fog lifts. You get clearer. And then you begin to notice something you couldn't fully see before: not all of the weight you've been carrying is yours.

You handle things. You always have.

The job. The house. The finances. The kids’ problems. Your partner’s stress. Whatever needs doing, you do it. People count on you. You’re the one who shows up.

So why are you tense all the time?

Your week is full. Work calls, errands, family obligations, the appointment you keep rescheduling. A full life often implies feeling more connected to those around you, but busyness can quietly thwart deeper connection.

Some ache over the loss of a mother they loved deeply, whether that loss happened recently or decades ago. Some are still sorting through conflicted feelings about mothers who were demanding or emotionally unavailable. Others find themselves growing closer to their mothers over time, finally able to move toward conversations that once felt out of reach.

Loneliness has a stereotype. An empty apartment. A phone that never rings. No one to call. For some people, that's exactly what it looks like.

Should you get another dog? Or is it too soon?

There’s no right answer to this question. But there are some honest things worth saying that you might not hear elsewhere.

There's a particular kind of disorientation that happens when you walk into your parents' home as a fully functioning adult and within twenty minutes feel like you're twelve again.

If you've been researching therapy for trauma, grief, or anxiety, you've probably come across Internal Family Systems, or IFS. If you've wondered whether there's something that goes just as deep without feeling like you have to go to war with yourself, this is worth reading.

It's 2am.

You wake up suddenly. Heart racing. Sheets damp with sweat. You kick the blankets off hoping the cool air helps.

Your mind is already moving.

Thoughts start circling. Irritation. Worry. A restlessness you can't quite name.

You still share a home.

You still share a life. Meals. The rhythms of daily existence.

But the person sitting across from you isn't the person you married. Illness or injury changed that. And the relationship you had disappeared even though they're still right there.

You've tried to figure it out. You've analyzed it, talked about it, read about it, and reasoned with yourself more times than you can count. You know your patterns. You might even know where they came from. And you still can't seem to move.

At first glance, your life may look pretty good. And yet there are nights when the house is quiet and a question keeps returning:

Why do I feel so lonely in my marriage?

Relationships aren't supposed to feel this confusing.

You may have spent time thinking about what went wrong in the past. Maybe you've read books, reflected on past partners, or even gone to therapy to understand your patterns.

And yet relationships still feel harder than they should.

All grievers ask some version of the same question:

“How long will this last?”
“Will I always feel this bad?”

What I didn’t understand then is that grief changes.

There is a long stretch of adulthood devoted to building.

Building a career.
Building stability.
Building relationships and something that feels secure.

For some women, that includes raising children. For others, it may mean caring for aging parents, building a business, investing deeply in a partnership, or showing up every day for those who depend on you.

You’re good at handling things.

You’ve built a solid life. You show up. You follow through. You’re competent in rooms where other people unravel.

Connection shouldn’t be the thing that trips you up.

And yet… here you are.

As a therapist, I often witness the intricate dance of relationships—how they support us, stretch us, and sometimes, how they hurt us. It’s a quiet kind of grief. One that often gets minimized or overlooked, even though it cuts just as deep.

Whenever I lose a dog, I’m struck by two things at once: the sharp ache of grief and the quiet waves of absence that follow. The routines, the silent understanding, and the unique personality that filled the house with life are missing now.

Some anniversaries leave an imprint that time doesn’t erase. The day associated with a loss can stir heaviness, anxiety, or a sense of restlessness, often catching people off guard.