When Grief Travels Across Oceans

Some losses arrive like quiet waves. No sudden impact, no crash—just a slow and painful realization that someone you love is no longer here. That you weren't there. That everything happened far away.

Vivi was one of those people whose presence filled a room without needing to say much. She lived with courage, with intention. She worked hard for everything she dreamed of, and once she had it, she knew how to love it, protect it, and enjoy it. That was Vivi—fierce and gentle, steady and vibrant. She gave everything to those she loved, especially to her children, who were her pride, her joy, her whole heart.

And now she’s gone. And I’m here—far.

Accompanying someone through illness is already hard. Doing it from a distance feels like trying to hold water in your hands. You want to be there for the daily, for the hard, for the quiet—especially for the quiet. But the only tools you have are words, calls, photos, messages. You learn to read between the lines. You hold on to tone of voice, to pauses, to what is said and what isn't. You build meaning from fragments. It’s not perfect. It’s not what you want. But it’s something. And you hold on to it.

Then comes the end. The goodbye that you weren’t there for. The moment you imagined happening in a shared room, with shared silence, doesn’t come. No shared tears. No final hug. No ceremony to anchor the loss. Just the news, and then the emptiness.

Grieving from afar is quiet. It’s private. You create your own rituals: light a candle, take a walk, write, cry in a space that no one else understands. You hold your own ceremony, even if it’s only in your heart.

Sometimes, grief surprises you. A song. A smell. A photo. A memory of a laugh. In those flashes, it hits again. And somehow, those moments feel sacred. As if the person is saying, I’m still here. I left, but I left so much with you.

And that’s true. Vivi left so much. Lessons about resilience. About how to love fiercely and live fully. About gratitude and strength. About not giving up, not even when everything seems against you. She left beauty behind. In her kids. In her family. In everyone who knew her.

This is the kind of grief that doesn’t get boxed into a ceremony. It stays with you. And that’s okay. It can be quiet and still be real. It can be lonely and still be full of love. It can be far and still feel close.

Vivi, thank you. You mattered. You still do. I carry you with me.

Vir