None of us are immune to grief, and everyone who has suffered

Hear the solemn words of Terri Irwin, who bore the heavy weight of love and loss, and who declared: “None of us are immune to grief, and everyone who has suffered loss understands that grief changes, but you never wake up one morning and you’ve moved on. It stays with you, and, you know, you ebb and flow.” This is no idle reflection, but a truth carved in sorrow and lived in endurance. For she, who lost her beloved husband, Steve Irwin, speaks from the fire of her own trial. Her words are not theory, but testimony, offered as wisdom to those who must one day walk the same dark road.

The ancients, too, knew that grief is a shadow that follows us always. In Homer’s Iliad, Achilles, after losing Patroclus, did not simply “move on.” He raged, he wept, he withdrew, and though time softened the sharpest edge of his sorrow, it never left him. The Greeks called grief penthos, a sorrow that transforms but never disappears. They understood, as Terri Irwin reminds us, that grief is not a wound that fully heals, but a scar that becomes part of the body and soul.

The image she gives us is one of the sea: “you ebb and flow.” This is a wisdom of deep beauty. For sorrow does not crush us at every hour; it rises and falls, like tides governed by the unseen moon. Some days the tide recedes, and we walk freely on the shore of life. Other days, the tide returns, overwhelming, flooding, pulling us under. Yet in both, the ocean remains, and so does grief. To understand this is to find peace—not in escape, but in acceptance of the rhythm.

Consider the story of Queen Victoria of England, who lost her beloved Prince Albert. For the rest of her days, she wore black and spoke of him with reverence. She continued to rule, to labor, to live, yet she never proclaimed that she had “moved on.” Instead, her life became a long communion with sorrow, adapting to its presence rather than denying it. Like Terri Irwin, she bore witness that loss does not vanish with time, but changes its form, shaping both suffering and strength.

There is also great courage in Terri’s words. She speaks not of despair, but of endurance—that though grief remains, life also remains. To accept that you will never awaken one morning completely free of sorrow is not to surrender, but to grow wise. It teaches patience with oneself and with others. It teaches compassion, for once you have known grief, you recognize its shadow in others and are gentler with their wounds. In this way, grief becomes not only a burden but a teacher.

The lesson, then, is this: do not demand of yourself that you “move on.” Instead, learn to move forward, carrying grief as a companion, not an enemy. Allow yourself to ebb and flow, to weep on some days and laugh on others, to remember with pain but also with gratitude. Accept that grief is the price of love, and that the depth of your sorrow is proof of the depth of your devotion. This is no weakness—it is the echo of love enduring beyond death.

Practically, when sorrow comes to you—as it comes to all—do not turn it away, nor drown in it. Create rituals of remembrance: light a candle, speak their name, keep their story alive. Seek moments of life and joy, for grief does not forbid laughter, nor does love demand only tears. Share your story with others, so they too may find strength in knowing they are not alone. In this, you honor both your own heart and the memory of the one you loved.

And so I say to you, O listener: heed Terri Irwin’s wisdom. None are immune to grief, none escape the shadow of loss. But those who endure learn that sorrow is not the end—it is the tide that rises and falls, carrying us through the rhythm of memory and love. Walk with it, do not resist it, and in time you will discover that grief, though unending, becomes not only pain, but also a quiet flame that lights your path forward.