I read something on grief the other day that struck a chord. The person writing lamented the fact that losing your spouse causes you to lose not only the person dearest to you, but in the aftermath you also lose most of your friends as well.

I can personally attest to this. And that is not pointing any fingers in any direction. It is simply a statement of truth, without any anger or ill-will. But it is puzzling.

I’ve thought about this a lot. I don’t blame people for leaving me — or me leaving them. I don’t blame myself. I blame grief.

But still, why? How?

At first — which is a long time actually — I think the pain of a person in deep, deep grief is palpable to others. It isn’t something you can touch or see, but it is there. And I believe it may be repelling. 

People want to reach out to you — to be there for you. And they are and they do. But it is hard. The pain you feel is somehow thrown out into the universe, like a bad perfume and anyone around you smells it and try as they might they only want to escape its wrath.

For you, the person in the center of the vortex of the wrath, there is no escaping. You also aren’t aware of the aura of pain you are emanating, because you are in the very eye of the storm.

But it continues, this grief vortex.

People you used to know, those who you used to be close to, try — some of them try very hard. But it isn’t to be. One by one, reason by reason, they exit your life. And that is truly okay. It is regrettable. But there is no blame in grief. Only sadness.

As friends leave, you attempt to meet others. New friends. But that is difficult. Many start strong, but they leave, too, just as the old friends did, and you realize, with remorse, that grief continues to surround you in a cloud of anguish that is overwhelming to those who haven’t experienced it firsthand.

This is okay. Because grief isn’t ready for you to begin life anew. The cloak of sorrow is a deterrent, but it is a protection as well. Because through this all, grief is transforming you. This transformation is both terrifying and wonderful at the same time.

Because grief — deep, deep grief that cuts you to the core causes you to lose your very self.

The person you thought you were, the person you’d planned to be all along is gone and in her place there is someone new. You have to learn to be this new person.

She isn’t bad. In fact lots of things about her are quite good. But she is different in ways you never thought you’d be, because she has gone though a pain you thought you’d never have to endure.

And that pain changes you fundamentally — to the core. 

And, as you learn to smile — from the heart, with joy — again, you realize that the initial and long-lasting pain of grief probably caused some people to leave, and others to not get to know you at all, because the hurt was just too rough and sharp and painful, not just for you but for anyone near to you.

But as you heal, slowly, gradually, you find people gravitating toward you again. And you realize you have changed fundamentally — for a second time, and this time the change is invited. It is welcomed.

It’s a new you. And she is smiling, from the inside out.

— Jill Pertler’s column Slices of Life appears regularly in the Times. She can be reached at 

slicescolumn@gmail.com.