How Grief Can Help You Appreciate The Present
Grief is weird.
One minute, you're doing fine, folding laundry like a functioning adult. Next, you're crying into a sock because it smells like them. And somehow, in the middle of all this emotional chaos, a tiny, surprising thing happens: you start to notice the small stuff.
Not in a sunshine-and-rainbows way. More like: Wow, I never noticed how warm this tea feels in my hands. Or This sunset actually stopped me mid-scroll. Or That song just hit differently today.
Grief has a brutal way of rearranging your world. But in that rearranging, it can also crack your heart wide open to the present moment, and all the tiny, sacred bits of comfort hiding in plain sight.
Let’s talk about why that matters, and how to gently, imperfectly lean into it.
Grief Isn’t a “Gratitude Journey”
This isn’t about turning your grief into a positive affirmation.
Grief is messy. It's non-linear. It's personal. And no one’s asking you to be thankful that you’re in pain.
But what we are saying is this: when you’re grieving, the world can suddenly get very quiet, and in that quiet, you might notice things you didn’t before.
The weight of a blanket. The way your dog nudges your hand. The quiet hum of your home in the morning. The way someone remembers their laugh just right.
These are the small, sacred things that don’t take the pain away, but they do soften it for a second. And that’s enough.
Why Grief Slows You Down (And Why That’s Weirdly Beautiful)
In a world obsessed with speed, grief forces you to stop.
You don’t move through your to-do list the same way. You forget what day it is. You sit still for longer. You question things you used to assume were facts.
And in that space, time stretches. Everything feels a little louder, slower, deeper. It’s like your senses have been turned up, not because everything is more exciting, but because you’re finally paying attention.
This is where the tiny moments come in. They show up like breadcrumbs, little things that remind you:
You’re still here.
Beauty still exists.
Comfort can live right beside sadness.
How to Start Noticing the Good (Without Faking It)
You don’t need a gratitude journal or a vision board. You just need to notice.
Here’s how to start, no pressure involved:
1. Look for “glimmers” instead of “triggers”
You’ve heard of triggers, right? Glimmers are their softer cousin, those tiny, feel-good moments that soothe your nervous system. Like:
The sound of rain
A bite of your favorite food
A voice note from someone who gets it
Warm socks fresh out of the dryer
You don’t have to force joy. Just notice what calms your shoulders for a second.
2. Make space for micro-moments
You don’t need a full spa day. Just 30 seconds of breathing, or holding a cup of coffee and actually tasting it.
Give yourself permission to exist in that moment, even if the next one hurts again. That’s okay. You’re not trying to erase grief, you’re letting light peek in alongside it.
3. Let yourself feel both things
Grief isn’t one-note. You can laugh and still miss them. You can feel grateful and gutted at the same time.
One doesn’t cancel out the other. In fact, those contradictions are often where the most healing happens.
Real-Life Examples of Comfort in the Chaos
Still not sure what “small moments” look like when you’re in the thick of loss? Here are a few real-life examples that many people recognize after a loss:
The first time you smiled again, and meant it.
Hearing their favorite song and singing it anyway.
Finding a note, a voicemail, or a recipe in their handwriting.
A stranger showing you kindness on a hard day.
Realizing you're becoming the kind of person they’d be proud of.
These are the anchor points. The small-but-mighty reminders that love doesn't end when life does.
When the Little Things Feel Like Too Much
Some days, even sipping tea or stepping outside can feel like too much. That’s okay.
Grief isn’t a checklist, and you’re not failing if you’re not “noticing the beauty” today.
Here’s what to do on those days:
Do one tiny, grounding thing. Brush your teeth. Wrap yourself in a blanket. Stare out the window for 2 minutes.
Speak gently to yourself. Imagine how you’d talk to a friend and use that voice on yourself.
Remember this: Grief is exhausting. It’s okay to feel like you’re doing the bare minimum—because you’re still doing something.
You’re still here. You’re still breathing. And that matters more than you know.
The Quiet Magic of Being Present (Even in Pain)
If grief teaches us anything, it’s that time is precious. And not in the toxic productivity “every second counts” kind of way.
But in this breath, this moment, this memory kind of way.
It reminds us that even the smallest things, a hand squeeze, a scent, a laugh, can become holy. And that maybe, just maybe, life’s real beauty hides in the stuff we used to rush past.
So yes, grief is heavy. But it also has a strange way of clearing out the noise, helping you hear what’s left.
And what’s left might just be the most important thing of all.