In our lives, we don’t just lose objects or moments—we lose entire chapters of ourselves.
We lose health, sometimes gradually, sometimes all at once.
We lose time, often without noticing it slipping through our fingers.
We lose relationships that once defined our days.
We even lose earlier versions of ourselves—the person we were before we knew better, before life reshaped us.
There’s something healthy, even human, about being able to laugh at how some of those losses happened. The irony. The missteps. The moments where we did the best we could with what we knew then. Laughter doesn’t dishonor the loss—it softens the edges so we can keep going.
But there’s also a quiet necessity in mourning them.
Because grief isn’t weakness. It’s not indulgence. It’s not self-pity.
Grieving is a strong, deliberate act. It’s how we acknowledge that something mattered. That someone mattered. That a version of our life was real, meaningful, and worth remembering.
And sometimes, it’s a wonderful thing to share those thoughts with old friends—guys who have known you since you were a kid. Guys who remember who you were before the detours, before the scars, before the rewrites. Guys you don’t have to be guarded with, because there’s nothing to explain and nothing to perform. They already know you.
There’s an absolute wonderfulness in that kind of friendship—the comfort of being seen without armor, the ease of speaking honestly, the quiet understanding that comes from shared history.
To grieve is to say: this shaped me.
And to honor it—through tears, through laughter, and through conversations with those who’ve walked beside you the longest—is one of the most honest things we ever do.
The Valley Viewpoint 