Each day, many of us wake to the same routine.
The sun is shining through the window. A gentle nudge from your dog. The quiet presence of your partner beside you. The soft morning sounds of your home coming to life. You may throw on your housecoat, make a coffee, and sit on your porch, watching your neighbours slowly wake up.
Routine brings a sense of comfort—even when we don’t realize it.
Years ago, while supporting families affected by the September 11 terrorist attacks, a colleague said to me, “when you go home, your neighbours will wake up on a Sunday morning and mow their lawns. And you will look out your window, seeing a completely different world, and wonder how life can continue the same way it always has.”
That stayed with me.
Because after trauma, the ordinary no longer feels ordinary.
Do you wake up now and look at each other and think, I don’t know how to do this the same way anymore? After what happened in Tumbler Ridge, I find myself wondering—and perhaps you are too—has your routine changed?
For many, the answer is yes.
Across Canada, we watched the tragedy unfold in shock, sorrow, and helplessness. It filled our conversations, our news, and our hearts. I was in Toronto at the time, and colleagues said to me, “Are you seeing this? You can help these people.”
And I understood why they were asking.
Because grief has been part of my story for a long time.
When I was 14, my brother Robert fell over the Niagara Falls Gorge to his death. Six months later, I was facing a cancer scare in my own body. In an instant, my world—and my sense of normal—was gone.
My routine disappeared.
And every day, I asked, Where is Robert? (Which turned out to be the title of my first book)
Grief does that.
It reshapes everything.
There is nothing I can write that will change what has happened. But what I can do is share my story, my work, and my understanding of grief in a way that helps us make sense of what feels impossible.
In my work, Grief Uprooted: The Seven Stages of Grief — An Interactive Path through the Phases of Healing, I guide people through seven stages of grief: Disbelief, Grasping, Melancholy, Realization, Clarity, Compassion, and Resilience.
These stages are not linear. They do not follow a neat order. We move through them in our own way—sometimes circling back, sometimes skipping ahead.
The first stage is Disbelief
Disbelief, often accompanied by shock, can be one of the most bewildering and disorienting experiences after loss. It is the mind’s natural defense mechanism—protecting us from the full weight of what has happened.
You may find yourself thinking:
- This can’t be real.
- There must be a mistake.
- I can’t believe this is happening.
You may feel numb. Disconnected. As though you are moving through life in a fog.
This is not a weakness. This is protection.
Disbelief allows the heart and mind to absorb grief in small, survivable pieces.
For some, it shows up as silence.
For others, it’s busyness.
For others, it’s not a topic they want to discuss at all.
Youth, especially, experience this in what I call “puddle jumping.” They may cry deeply one moment, then return to play the next. They move in and out of grief as their system allows.
This is not avoidance.
This is intelligence.
This is how we survive.
Are You in Disbelief? A Gentle Reflection
In the early days of grief, it can be hard to recognize where you are. Disbelief does not always look like obvious shock—it can be quiet, subtle, and deeply internal.
Take a moment and ask yourself:
- Do I find myself thinking, “This doesn’t feel real”?
- Am I going through my day on autopilot, as if I’m watching life from the outside?
- Do I feel emotionally numb or disconnected from what’s happening around me? Some describe it as feeling like they’re watching a movie.
- Have I caught myself expecting things to return to how they were—even for a moment?
- Do certain places in Tumbler Ridge feel different to you now?
- Do certain places or conversations—or even areas within and around the school or community—feel harder to be in right now?
- Am I struggling to concentrate, remember things, or stay present?
- Do parts of my daily routine feel unfamiliar or strangely distant?
If you answered yes to even one of these, you may be experiencing Disbelief.
And that is okay.
Disbelief is not something to push through; it’s something to acknowledge. It is something to gently move with. It is your mind and body giving you time—time to slowly begin understanding what your heart is not yet ready to fully hold.
There is no timeline. There is no right way. Only your way.
As we begin to name what we are feeling, we begin—slowly—to move.
Not away from grief, but through it.
Your response, your experience, your story—it all matters.
So I leave you with this:
What did you do or feel physically in those first moments when you realized what was happening? What were your first thoughts?
Don’t dismiss them.
Because that moment was the beginning of your grief story or perhaps a continuation, as past grief gently finds its way back into the present.
This article is not intended to replace professional medical or psychological support or care. If at any point you feel overwhelmed or need immediate support, please consider reaching out to Mental Health/Community Care at 250-242-2642.
You are not alone—support is here for you. We will be gathering online next week to hold space for this conversation—to talk openly about disbelief and the many ways grief shows up. I will be there to answer your questions and to support open conversation around your grief journey. If you would like to submit questions in advance, please don’t hesitate to reach out at info@robertspress.ca. If you need additional grief resources, support is available.
Christine Dernederlanden, C.B.T., C.T.S.S., IAC Master Practitioner and Reiki Master, is a grief and trauma expert, author, and speaker. She is the author of numerous books, and hosts the Grief Uprooted podcast. Learn more at www.griefuprooted.com or
www.robertspress.ca.
