United in Grief: Trying to Find Peace in Anger

I’ve been going through something, 365 days…

Today marks one year since my grandfather passed. And even now, I don’t think I’ve allowed myself to fully grieve.

When I first found out, I was blinded by rage. The news came from someone I personally don’t care for, and it arrived via text message. To me, that felt insensitive, a little classless, and more than a smidge tainted with ulterior motives.

At the time, I suppressed my feelings. I had a wedding to plan and a stressful work environment to navigate. But things finally came to a head this September. By then, I was four months into marriage and we had just gotten a new puppy. I’d also been blessed with a new job, fully stepping into my “corporate girlie” era. With nothing left to overshadow my emotions, all those suppressed feelings came flooding back.

It started with anger. I revisited that moment and felt the same fury I had almost a year earlier. I felt robbed—of closure, of the chance to grieve on my own terms, and of the comfort of being near my family. I wasn’t home when I found out. I was with my husband’s family, who brought me some comfort, but I still felt like I had to put on a face so things wouldn’t be awkward. I’m sure they would’ve let me fully emote, ugly cry in my pajamas, and rock a messy bun. But at that moment, I couldn’t see that. Plus, I was more angry than sad.

I was angry not only due to finding out through a text but also because of who sent the text. I could dive into all the reasons I dislike this person, but sometimes, not liking someone is just… what it is. That text felt tone-deaf. Sure, they’ll tell you they had good intentions and wanted to encourage the cousins. But I call BS. That message felt rushed, thoughtless, and devoid of grace — sent mere moments after they were fortunate enough to be informed by their parent.

To this day, I question it. Were they also informed via text message? Was there some unspoken reason that justified their choice? By a show of hands, who also found out we had to bury our Grandfather via text message? I’ll wait.

Why couldn’t we all be given the same grace to hear the news privately, from someone close to us? It still stings.

From September to mid-November, I wrestled with that anger. I replayed the moment in my head on a loop, tangled in "what-ifs." Would my reaction have been the same if someone else sent that text? What if my dad had told me on his own time—would I have been okay? If I’d been home when I received that message, would it have felt less hurtful? And what if I had cursed that girl out in my blind rage instead of letting my husband take my phone—would I be happier now? (Spoiler alert: hell yeah, I would! But thank God for my husband, am I right?)

By late November, the anger began to loosen its grip. I started receiving messages from God to let go and find peace. It was hard—I wanted to choose war. I was tired of taking the high road, tired of praying for people when I’d rather throw hands. But deep down, I knew God was guiding me toward a better path.

I hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime.

I prayed for clarity and realized something painful: I was the one who robbed myself of that moment. My anger and rage—fueled by ego and disdain—became the thief.

I already knew my grandfather was at peace when he passed. He had lived a full beautiful 89 years, and in his own way, he was ready to go. It is just that I let distractions stop me from reconciling with the emotions that come with this.

Now, I’m reclaiming that energy. I’m grieving, fully and unapologetically, even though it’s a year later. I gave my anger to God (though, as you can tell, He’s still working on me). Everything feels fresh. 

The smallest things remind me of Granddaddy. The other day, a reindeer decoration took me back to helping him set up Christmas decorations at his house with my dad and siblings. I thought about his massive tree that barely fit in the living room and how we hung the garland vertically because wrapping it around was too much work!

Grieving isn’t a race—it’s a messy, unorganized marathon. Honor every feeling, not just one. Cry when you need to, laugh when you can, and give yourself grace this holiday season. We all grieve differently.

Much love.