The fabric of grief is woven with coarse threads of guilt and regret.
The threads of guilt rasp with I didn’t do enough, yet the coarsest of these are the why? threads.
- Why didn’t I…?
- Why did I…?
Run your hand here. Feel the threads of regret: I wish I had spent more time… I could have been more patient…
Some of the roughest strands in my grief include:
- I didn’t spend enough time with Mom.
- I should have spent more time talking to my grandfather about his childhood.
- I could have been more patient with Bernice.
- I didn’t give Rosie enough attention.
Some of the guilt and regret is imagined. Surely, some is real. Grief doesn’t distinguish neatly between the two—it speaks in the voice of hindsight, replaying moments, revising scenes, insisting on commentary.
The Softness of Presence
The only way I know to move through grief—and soften these coarse threads—is not to argue with them, but to stay present with what I feel. I run my hands across the silky sadness and the rough regret. I pull the fabric around my shoulders or press its folds to my face. Over time, the textures soften against my skin.
Some mornings I wake to the scratch of what has been—the mind cataloguing what cannot be changed. And still I wake to a new day. A new beginning. Another chance to be awake and alive.
One of my readings last week included the question: How much of our lives do we spend clinging to that which we’re afraid to lose?
I didn’t bother doing the math in my case. I know the answer is too much.
Time passes anyway. It is indifferent to the tightening of my grip, to the stories my mind tells in its effort to protect what it loves. After loss, wrapped in this complicated fabric of grief, I remind myself to return to this moment—the one right here.
I can loosen my hold just enough to feel what is still alive. Pausing, I draw on the softer threads: awareness and presence, delight and gratitude. I can wear grief without letting it pull me away from myself.
The fabric remains.
But so do I.
©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2026
When my late ex-husband’s daughter died he commented that he felt his relationship with her had been complete. To him that meant they had said everything they needed and wanted to say to each other and they were up to date. This is how I’ve tried to live my life with those I love ever since.
We can all be better humans, but unfortunately, none of us can be perfect. Sounds like you did your best and because you’re worried you didn’t, it shows what a good, decent person you are.
Beautiful post and you know the loss of my brother will be with me for a very long time. But I will cling to his memory and all he gave me throughout our lives, Beth