8 Ways Time Warps in Grief

Time warps in grief. Mourning distorts how we experience and sense the passage of time in grief. It changes the predictability we came to count on, the way we see the past, the present and the future.

Within the space of a few hours, life irrevocably shifted when Dan died. I was unmoored from our life rhythms, no longer tied to Dan’s work schedule, his days off, his vacation time.

While the outside world continued to hum with its steady progression of hours and days and weeks, the perception of time changed in my grief.

Grief distorted time in multiple ways. Some happened early in grief and some still persist years later.

As you move through life after loss, you may recognize one or all of the ways time warps in grief.

8 ways time warps in grief

1.Time stops.

The details of my last hours with Dan are frozen in time. They’re seared into my memory, nearly as fresh as they were the day it happened.

While grief has softened the physical pain of those memories, they are indelibly stamped in my memory. “These memories are so emotionally important to us that they’re laid down as vividly, completely and accurately as a photograph.”[i]

Dan will never get older. He’ll never age in our photos or memories. I won’t have more birthdays or anniversaries with him. I’ve gotten older and our children are getting older, but Dan is forever 47.

The challenge for those of us living after loss is not to become frozen in time as well. While there will always be a sense that time stopped that day, as we process our grief we’ll be able to move forward to live well in the present.

2. Time divides.

Deep loss divides time into a before and after. Maybe you’ve experienced that after the death of someone you love, a divorce or a diagnosis. That loss becomes a fulcrum on which life before and life after toggle.

Ask anyone walking through deep grief and they’ll tell you the exact day life split into two halves. Even twelve years later, when I tell a story or recall an event, I immediately place it as before or after Dan died.

The date of loss isn’t just a marker of time, but a pivot point where the trajectory of our life veered afterward. Life cannot go back to the way it was before. The date of loss is the great divide and grief the canyon we have to traverse to get to the other side.

3. Time repeats.

The days following Dan’s memorial service felt like the movie Groundhog Day. Each morning, I’d wake and for the tiniest moment, life felt normal. Just as suddenly, though, I’d remember Dan was gone and the weight of grief would swallow me all over again.

In quiet moments, my mind replayed the events of what had happened. I’d expect him to walk through the back door or I’d pick up my phone to share news about one of the kids and then remember—he was gone.

We stay in this loop of replaying and remembering because it takes months to wrap our mind around the reality of loss. I think, too, regret plays a role. Regret makes us think we could have changed the ending. If only real life was like the movies, where a day gone wrong keeps replaying until they finally get the outcome they want.

4. Time slows.

In those first days of raw grief, time seemed to go in slow motion. I functioned on autopilot in a fog of grief. In the bubble of my own broken heart, the rest of the world faded away.

Things like world politics and local events no longer interested me. Life hummed all around me and friends moved on with work and sports and birthday parties, while I pulled inward, spent more time alone and let go of outside responsibilities that weren’t essential.

Grieving felt like sludging through mud, only to get up and do it again the next day. (See #3.) To use another analogy, it felt like stepping off a busy treadmill while the world continued to move on. The constant ache and messy mix of grueling emotions demanded my full attention and I fought to simply be present for my children.

5. I felt both older and younger after loss.

Loss changes our role and identity. Most of us become part of a club we never wanted. Mine was the widow club, which made me feel decades older. Add to that the stress of solo parenting and trauma of Dan’s death and I could almost feel myself aging.

At the same time, I felt younger. I was newly single. The last time I’d been unconnected and unengaged I was 18 years old. I could date again. I lost my appetite and lost weight, pulling out old clothes I hadn’t worn in years from the back of my closet.

I was in a class all by myself. No one in my circle was a widow and none was single. I was too young for the widows class at church and too old for the singles class.

6. The past is excruciating.

Grieving the life I’d had was excruciating after Dan died. We had so many plans and dreams suddenly cut short. Facebook memories of smiling days mocked my grim reality. Driving past date night spots or through the town where we’d grown up, met, and dated was a neon reminder of the person and life I no longer had.

But grief can also distort the past, causing us to view it with rosy retrospection.[ii] Not everything was perfect before loss. Nostalgia causes us to look back and remember the good while minimizing or leaving out the hard.

On tough days, I have to guard against seeing life before loss as only good. Truth is, life before loss was a mix of good and challenge, just as life after loss is a mix of good and challenge. As we process grief, the raw ache softens allowing us to look back less with pain and more with gratitude.

7. The future is terrifying.

When life implodes in loss, it takes with it the future we thought was ours. The future can feel like a bleak, black hole. After Dan died, I couldn’t imagine what my future held, and I certainly didn’t want it because he wasn’t in it.

The future also felt terrifying. Loss ushers in legitimate concerns for things like finances, health, or how we and our children will make it through. When the unimaginable happens, other horrific events no longer seem remote.

While nostalgia can make us look at the past as only good, fear can make us see the future as only bad. Neither is true. We need to take the lies driving our fears captive to God’s truth to find our way forward.

8. Our body tracks time even when we don’t.

A few years ago, as the calendar turned toward the date Dan went to heaven, I told myself I was fine. I’d be fine. It had been nine years and I’d made it through the worst of raw, painful grief.

But my body knew. The day before Dan’s heavengoing, I could feel the effects of grief. I was pensive. Reflective. And tired. While I’d assumed I’d be able to navigate that day like any other, my body wouldn’t let me. I canceled activities and took time to grieve, which I’m sure involved bingeing Netflix and plenty of rest.

It’s uncanny to me how our mind and body keep track of the date of loss. Instead of expecting myself to push through, I’ve learned to make space for the memories and emotions and missing that come.

As time warps in grief, time is both hurtful and hopeful. Each day we move forward from loss is one day further from the last hug or last conversation with our loved one. With each passing day, the memory of their voice and touch fade.

But the passage of time also means we’re one day closer. We can take heart in every sunrise. Because each day moves us one day closer to eternity and seeing our loved one again.

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[i] Law, Bridget Murray, “Seared Into Our Memories,” https://www.apa.org/monitor/2011/09/memories
[ii] https://thedecisionlab.com/biases/rosy-retrospection