Grief doesn’t come with an instruction manual—though if it did, I imagine it would be 700 pages long, written in six fonts, and entirely unhelpful. When my son died, I quickly realised that grief had its own chaotic rhythm. But in the midst of that emotional free-fall, I discovered something that helped me cope: controlled grief.

Now, I’ll admit it, I’m a bit of a control freak. Okay, fine, a full-blown, colour-coded-calendar, label-maker-loving, plan-everything-down-to-the-minute type. So naturally, when grief showed up with its messy, unpredictable, snotty-faced chaos, I did what I do best: I tried to schedule it. And surprisingly… it worked. Kind of. I found comfort in giving myself designated moments to grieve on my own terms. I didn’t want my elderly mum or my siblings to see me fall apart. Not because I was trying to be stoic or noble, but because I knew they were also hurting. I didn’t want to add my complete emotional collapse to the family playlist of sadness.

So I kept things together in public most of the time. And then, in private, I gave myself full permission to fall apart. In those moments, I’d sit with my grief. I’d cry, ugly cry. I’d punch a pillow (or several). I even had the occasional solo sob-fest soundtracked by Adele, because why not go full drama?

These sessions were raw and real, but they were mine. No one was watching. I didn’t have to explain or reassure anyone. I just let it happen. But let me be clear: controlled grief isn’t about bottling things up or pretending everything’s okay. Quite the opposite. It’s about making space for your emotions—giving them airtime, without letting them take over every moment of your life.

I also tried to stay present and emotionally aware outside of those “grief appointments.” Because as anyone who’s grieving knows, the sadness doesn’t stick to the schedule. Grief is sneaky. It can hit you in the supermarket when you see your child’s favorite biscuit. Or when a stranger’s laugh sounds just like your loved one’s. Or when you hear a song, smell a scent, or open a drawer you forgot existed. That’s why I say: never suppress or push down your grief. It’s not going anywhere. It’ll just show up later with a vengeance, probably when you’re wearing mascara or standing in line at the bank.

Controlled grief worked for me because it gave me something to hold onto in the early chaos. It gave me a little bit of space and a little bit of structure. But it’s not a rule or a recommendation, it’s just one way, and it happened to suit my personality. Everyone grieves differently. Some people fall apart in front of others. Some hold it together until they’re alone. Some cry every day, some don’t cry at all. Some write. Some walk. Some talk constantly about it. Some scream into the void. All of it is valid.

So if you’re grieving and trying to find your way, know this: there’s no right method. There’s no universal guidebook. But if you’re the kind of person who thrives on structure, even in chaos, controlled grief might just help you, too. And remember: whether your grief is scheduled, spontaneous, loud, silent, public, private, or somewhere in between, it’s all part of the process. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re just doing you—and that’s enough.

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