When the World Moves On… But You Don’t

In the beginning, everyone is there.

The messages.
 The flowers.
 The check-ins.

But slowly…
 the world starts to move on.

And you don’t.

This episode explores the quiet, deeply painful part of grief that often comes after the initial support fades —
 when life returns to normal for everyone else… but you’re still living with loss.

We talk about:

• The loneliness that follows grief 
• Feeling forgotten or left behind 
• The pressure to “be okay” 
• Why grief has no timeline 
• And how to find support when the world doesn’t understand 

If this is where you are right now…
 this episode is for you.

🤍 You are not doing grief wrong.

Jen Connors - Harrys Helping Hands Grief & Loss Counselling

0431212575

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

In the beginning, everyone is there. The messages, the flowers, the check-ins, and slowly the world starts to move on. And you don't. Hi and welcome back to Grieving Greatly, a space for the parts of grief that don't always get spoken about. In the last few episodes, we've talked about the shock of loss, the days after, and how grief can change relationships. But today I want to talk about something quieter. Something that can feel incredibly lonely. The moment when the world moves on, but you're still grieving. In the early days after Harry died, there were people everywhere. Support, kindness, presence. And I'll always be grateful for that. The grief doesn't end after a few days or even a few weeks. And slowly things begin to change. The shock starts to wear off, and instead of things getting easier, it can actually feel harder. Right at the moment, people expect you to be feeling better, to be getting back to normal. It can feel completely insurmountable. The messages become less frequent. The visits stop, and people return to their routines, their lives. And that's natural. The world keeps moving. But for you, nothing feels normal. You're still waking up to the same reality, still carrying the same loss, still trying to understand how to live in a world where your child isn't isn't yet. And it can start to feel like everyone else has moved forward and you're standing still. You might find yourself thinking, have they forgotten? Do they think I should be okay by now? Why am I the only one still here? And slowly it can begin to feel like you've been left behind in a world that no longer understands you. This is where different kind of pain begins. Not just grief, but loneliness. The kind that says people don't understand anymore. I shouldn't still feel this way. I have to start being okay. And that pressure is heavy. Because now grief becomes quieter but heavier. It's no longer just about the person you lost. It's about the space they've left behind and the space that's opened up between you and everyone else. You might feel alone in rooms or full of people, disconnected from conversations, unable to relate to things that once felt normal. I remember being at a party hearing conversations like, I can't go on unless I get a bigger house. And then hearing a mum say to me, it was the hardest thing she's ever done explaining to her children that her guinea their guinea pig had died. While I was trying to explain to mine that their brother was gone. And in those moments it can feel impossible to relate. So sometimes it feels easier to say nothing at all. So you go quiet and carry it alone. I remember going to my first psychologist appointment after Harry died. I walked into the room and saw photos of her son on the wall. I was instantly triggered. All I wanted was Harry. And she said to me, Well, you're studying psychology, you know the stages of grief. But knowing grief and living grief are not the same. I never went back. And that's something I say often now. Finding the right counsellor for you is so important. Because when you're in deep grief, you don't need theory, you need understanding. And that experience is why I became a grief and loss counsellor. There is nothing wrong with you for feeling this way. Grief doesn't follow the timeline of the outside world. The world moves in days, weeks, months. But grief moves in moments, in memories, in waves that don't ask permission. And other people aren't always moving on because they don't care. Sometimes they just do not know how to stay. And they don't know what to say anymore. So they say nothing. And I understand that now. But what we actually need is for people to stay. I've always thought of grief as a kind of give and take. We all go through it in one way or another. At some point in life, every one of us will experience the loss of someone or something we love. And in that, there's a quiet understanding that I can be there for someone in their hardest moments, and one day someone will be there for me. But the truth is we don't talk about grief enough. We don't talk about what it really feels like or what it actually does to you. I remember my beautiful counsellor, the one I told you I argued with constantly and probably challenged more than anyone should. She shared with me her own experience of losing her son overseas. And what stayed with me was how different it felt. She said in the United States there's often more openness around emotions. Grief is named, spoken about, explored. People are more likely to say, I'm not okay. Out and out. There's a culture of storytelling through books, podcasts, memoirs. Where pain isn't hidden, it's shared. But here in Australia, we often sit in what I call the she'll be right mentality, where emotional expression can feel uncomfortable or even minimize, where support shows up in the beginning, but quietly fades. And somewhere along the way, there's this unspoken pressure to move forward, to stay strong, to be okay, even when you're not. It made me realize something. It's not that some places grieve better, it's that some places give more permission to grieve. And here we're still learning how to do that. Six weeks after Harry died, I went to a grief group for parents who had lost children. I remember walking in thinking, maybe this is what I need. Maybe this is where I'll find people who understand. And in some ways I did. But I also learned something I wasn't expecting. There were parents in that room who were 20 to 30 years into their grief. And they were still in the exact same place that I was, just six weeks in. It scared me. Because I realized this wasn't just grief. This was a way of living inside it. And I remember thinking I can't live like this for the rest of my life. And this is something I want to say gently because it matters. Not all grief spaces are the right space for you. And sometimes you need to be really mindful of what grief you are sitting inside. Because grief is heavy and it can hold you. But it can also keep you stuck. I remember listening to some of the parrots speak and hearing how much of them still living only in the loss. But their world had stopped there. And what really stayed with me was how it seemed like their living children, their families, had almost disappeared in the shadow of that grief. And it was so, so sad. Not wrong, just heartbreaking. And I remember leaving that room thinking there has to be another way. Because I knew I couldn't survive carrying that level of pain in that way for the rest of my life. And that moment, not straight away, but over time, helped me make a decision. I made it my mission to find a way to live with grief without being consumed by it. Grief groups can be incredibly powerful. The right group matters. The energy in the room matters. The stage of grief matters. And whether there is space for both. Grief and life. That matters too. I didn't just need people who understood my pain. I needed people who could help me believe I could survive it. Because in those moments it wasn't just about being seen, it was about holding on to something, anything that told me I was going to make it through. I remember making a Christmas card and photoshopping Harry's photo into it. Because to me he was still part of our family, and he always would be. But not everyone saw it that way. I remember someone phoning my husband to check if I was okay, to make sure I wasn't going crazy, because I still wrote his name on cards. I remember my daughter's friend being unsettled by it and saying that out loud to my child. All because I still had Harry's name clerk on the door of what I still saw as his room. And that's the part people don't always understand. Grief doesn't mean letting go of the person. It means finding a way to carry them with you, and sometimes what looks strange to others is actually survival. There were moments where I felt like the world had moved on from Harry. And I never could, and I never will. Because love doesn't work like that. If you're feeling this right now, if it feels like people have stopped checking in, you are not doing grief wrong. You are experiencing what grief actually is. The world didn't just keep going, it moved on without him. But my love didn't, and neither did my grief. The world moving on doesn't mean your loss matters less. It just means the world doesn't fully understand what you are carrying. If you are in this place right now where the world feels like it's moved on without them, I want you to know this. You are not behind, you are not stuck, you are not meant to be over it. You are still loving someone who is no longer here. And that kind of love doesn't disappear. For Harry and for anyone learning to live in a world that kept going. Thank you for being here. And before you go, I want to leave you with this. I'll be here with you in the next one. And just a gentle reminder: if today you brought up anything difficult, please reach out for support. You can contact Brief Australia on 1-800-642-066 or Lifeline Australia 131114. Or reach out to me directly on 0431 212 575. You don't have to go through this alone.