The Unspoken Grief of Awakening
There’s something I rarely hear spoken about in spiritual circles, yet it is encountered for many on the journey of awakening: grief.
Not the loud kind that wails at death or heartbreak. Not even the kind that’s obvious from the outside. This is a quieter grief. Subtle. Muffled. Often unnamed. But deep nonetheless.
It’s the grief of seeing clearly.
The grief of letting go of comforting illusions and half-held dreams we didn’t even realise we were clutching. The grief of watching the scaffolding of identity dissolve, not in a blaze of glory, but often in a slow, unstoppable crumble, one crack, one chunk at a time. The feeling of the ground disappearing from beneath beliefs that once felt like home, so solid and real. Even if those beliefs were small cages they were familiar, known. And familiarity, even painful and constricting as it is, often feels like safety, love, self. Like an old pair of slippers long past their use.
There’s a grief that comes when we begin to see through the delusions we thought were true. The ones we were taught. The ones we told ourselves. The ones that cushioned us from the sharp edges of reality. Delusions that, more often than not, were innocent. Protective. Built to help us survive.
We rarely talk about how painful it can be to no longer be able to pretend.
To no longer be able to un-see.
Many speak of awakening as liberation, and it is, but liberation sometimes feels like loss before it feels like freedom. It requires us to meet the rawness of life without the filters that once softened the glare. It asks of us a radical honesty. It asks us to stop trying to make things prettier than they are, or more convenient, or more aligned with our preferences. It asks us to come into alignment with what is, not what we wish was.
And that hurts, cracking you open in ways you’d rather not.
There’s a particular kind of ache when we realise the universe isn’t going to meet our expectations, and that those expectations weren’t true to begin with. They were projections. Hopeful ones. Childlike ones. Ones built from stories we inherited and stitched together to create meaning, coherence and hope. And when those stories unravel, we’re left with the nakedness of reality. Not always cruel, not always harsh, but true. Stripped. Unembellished. Raw.
And sometimes the truth doesn’t comfort.
Sometimes the truth doesn’t hold us.
Sometimes, it simply is and we must meet it as we are.
There’s a mourning in this. A death. Sometimes several even. And sometimes we encounter this threshold again and again and again until we’re ready to be fully cracked open. It’s the death of who we thought we were. The death of how we thought life worked. The death of our secret bargains with the Divine.
And yet, this grief is sacred.
This grief opens the door to something far more real than comfort ever could. It invites us into intimacy with life as it truly is. With truth. With essence. With our own unvarnished nature.
It’s a fire that purifies.
It’s a breaking that makes space.
It’s not a sign we’ve gone wrong.
It’s a sign we’re getting honest.
And on the other side of grief?
Truth, clarity, true freedom, and a peace that goes beyond all understanding. A deeper freedom than we could have imagined, not because it gave us what we wanted, but because it freed us from the hunger for anything but reality.
So if you’re grieving, know this: it’s part of the path.
You’re not broken.
You’re not lost.
You’re seeing clearly. And that clarity might cost you the comfort of illusion.
But it will bring you home.
Not to the fantasy.
But to the real.
To what remains when all else falls away.
To what never left.
To what Is.
Written for day 2 of the St. Non’s Retreat, 8th June 2025.
Join Imogen for Weekly Zoom Groups, Sunday Satsang Gatherings, Retreats and other events. Book a 1-1 Session or explore Imogen’s other offerings at beyondimogen.com.
If you feel moved to support this offering:
• Like, share & comment — it’s a huge help in getting these words out there.
• Leave a one-time thank you — A small gesture of appreciation and support can be made here:
• Become a subscriber — Support the growth of this space and receive new writings and reflections straight to your inbox.
Thank you for walking alongside me ~ Imogen