I was still groggy from my afternoon nap when the doctor called to say Dad had died.
I shook uncontrollably. The rest of the call was a blur.
I got off the call and the phone slipped from my hand. I collapsed from the sofa onto the floor and released the most inhuman howl from the core of my body.
Pure, raw grief.
But relief didn’t appear then. It appeared later and that’s what surprised the hell out of me.
When relief after loss feels weird
Later that night, my brother and I went to see his body in the ICU red zone. Only two people allowed during COVID, so Mum never got to see him.
Wrapped in layers of PPE, we cautiously walked into the dimly lit and stark room. My tears and snotty nose filled up my mask. I could barely breathe.
I leaned over his body, expecting to see pain etched on his face. With every organ failing, breathing getting harder, body crumbling, I thought the stress would still be there.
He looked peaceful. Like he was asleep.
And I felt that first flush of relief.
Not because he was gone. Because his body was no longer working so hard just to stay alive.
But it was short-lived.
The shame reflex is strong after relief
The judgement flooded in almost immediately.
“What kind of daughter feels relief when her Dad is dead?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Did you want this? How could you?“
My stomach turned and my damp, clammy cheeks burned up under the layers of all that PPE.
I felt uneasy. Queasy. Unworthy.
Again it was hard to breathe. I turned away from his face, unwilling to share my messed up thoughts and emotions with him.
Ashamed.
But it turns out relief after parent loss is most common after illness, suffering, or uncertainty.
It’s not an emotional preference or a verdict on love. Even though we layer that crap on top afterwards to feel worse than we already do.
No, it’s a nervous system and mindset response once a sustained threat has finally ended.
When someone you love is seriously ill, your brain and body stay in constant vigilance. You're monitoring every change, bracing for worst-case scenarios, living in uncertainty.
This sustained state is metabolically and emotionally expensive.
And when loss happens, the stress load drops even while sadness, longing, and love remain in the mix.
Relief often arrives when there’s clear evidence the suffering has ended. So when I saw Dad’s body at rest, looking peaceful, my brain got concrete information that his struggle was over.
My system was allowed to stand down, even if it was briefly.
So the problem isn’t the relief. It’s the meaning we attach to it and whether we take a compassionate or uncompassionate view about ourselves.
When grief is expected to look only like sadness, relief gets misread as coldness or moral failure. It drives our shame because relief feels wrong in that context.
In reality, love and relief often coexist, and one doesn’t cancel the other.
It means we saw how much the situation cost, and that this part of the story has ended.
What I’d tell you now
I still think back to that moment in the ICU. Dad’s face finally at peace, my own relief crashing into shame.
If I could go back to that sobbing, puffy and lost woman in that moment, I’d tell myself: “This doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you a human, and that’s OK.”
Relief and grief live in the same body, often at the same moment.
Love and exhaustion co-exist. And you don’t have to choose between honouring them and acknowledging the cost of their suffering.
If you’re holding complicated grief right now, the kind that doesn’t fit neatly into what you think you’re supposed to feel, you’re not alone.
Even if you knew it was coming, or it was a shock, don’t be surprised if relief appears.
And you don’t need to wear shame on top of everything else you’ve lost.
P.S. If you’ve been struggling with your grief, I’ve created a self-guided workshop to help with where you are right now. Learn more and enrol to Navigating Grief With Compassion.