The Irony of Brokenness: When Grief Hides in Plain Sight
I once had my heart broken. The kind of loss that makes you question everything—your worth, your choices, the story you thought you were living.
And like I had always done, I ran.
I flew to London for a musical theatre audition, throwing myself into something familiar, something I could control. The role I was chasing? A character shattered by love.
The feedback I received?
"You didn’t play the brokenness enough."
I remember standing there, holding that sentence in my hands. I had lived that brokenness. It was still raw, still pulsing beneath my skin. And yet, it hadn’t shown.
At the time, I wasn’t a counsellor. I wasn’t thinking about grief or how we suppress pain—I was just a musical actor, wondering if I should have let the heartbreak show more in my pauses, in the weight of my voice.
But looking back, I see the irony of that moment.
Because now, in my work with clients, I notice the same thing: we expect grief to be obvious. We assume we’ll recognize it when it comes. But grief is rarely what we imagine it to be.
The Invisibility of Grief
One of the biggest surprises about grief is how it doesn’t always arrive when you expect it to.
It doesn’t just happen at funerals or in the privacy of our bedrooms. It sneaks up on you in the grocery store, in the middle of a meeting, or when you're tying your shoelaces.
And sometimes, it doesn’t look like grief at all.
We often think of grief in extremes.
In parts of Asia, there was a time when the depth of love was measured by the depth of mourning—where funerals needed to be loud, dramatic, seen. There were even professional mourners, hired to cry and wail, ensuring that the loss was fully expressed.
And yet, in the same culture, I meet men who tell me:
"What’s the point of crying?"
"I need to be strong for my family."
Two extremes—one where grief must be performed, and one where it must be buried.
And somewhere in between, most of us are left unsure.
If we don’t cry, does that mean we didn’t love enough?
If we do cry, does that mean we’re weak?
I see it all the time in the counselling room—people who have been holding their grief so tightly, they don’t even realise they’re carrying it.
And when it finally spills out, the relief is almost as overwhelming as the sadness.
Grief Has No Script
Grief is as unique as a fingerprint.
No one carries it the same way. Some people cry. Some don’t. Some get quiet. Some get angry. Some throw themselves into work. Some feel paralyzed. Some laugh in the middle of a eulogy, then wonder what’s wrong with them.
And yet, we judge ourselves.
"Should I be crying more?"
"Should I be over this by now?"
"Why does my sadness come in waves when everyone else seems to be moving forward?"
But grief isn’t something to be performed correctly.
The moment I was told I hadn’t played brokenness enough, I had been in the thick of heartbreak.
And still, it wasn’t visible.
Maybe that’s because, deep down, I was already doing what people do—we carry on, we adapt, we make sense of our wounds in ways that aren’t always seen.
If Your Grief Feels Unseen
If you’re reading this and wondering why your grief isn’t visible to others—or even to yourself—know this:
Pain doesn’t have to look a certain way to be real.
Just because you seem okay doesn’t mean you aren’t carrying something heavy.
Maybe you feel the pressure to be strong. Maybe you don’t have the words for what you’re feeling. Maybe your grief doesn’t look like what you thought it would.
That’s okay.
You don’t have to prove your pain to anyone. You don’t have to break apart for your loss to be valid. You don’t have to cry for your grief to matter.
Whatever shape your grief takes—even if no one else sees it—it’s real.
And that’s enough.
If you found this post helpful, feel free to share it with someone who might benefit!
Warmly,
George Chan
This Is How We Heal
George Chan, MCOU, is a Counsellor, Grief Educator and Breathwork Coach who specialises in helping individuals navigate grief and loss through his private practice, This Is How We Heal. With a rich background in theatre and entertainment, George brings creativity and empathy to his work. When he's not in the therapy room, you might find him performing, choreographing, or working on a new production—or spending time with Luna, his Jack Russell Terrier, who doubles as his unofficial co-therapist and production critic.