Time, Loss, and the Stories We Keep
The Psychology of Grief and Legacy
There is a particular stillness in the moments after receiving news of a death. It is a quiet recognition of something irrevocable, a shift in reality that cannot be undone. The news arrives, a sentence spoken or a headline seen, and suddenly the world is missing someone it had only just contained. This past week, I experienced two such moments: first, learning that my brother-in-law had passed away, and then this morning, waking up to reports that Gene Hackman had died. Two very different losses, but each in its own way carried a weight, a reminder of time’s passage and the unrelenting nature of change.
I did not know Gene Hackman personally, but he was one of those figures whose presence shaped the periphery of my life. His performances in films like Crimson Tide, The Birdcage, and The Firm were embedded in my cultural consciousness, but beyond that, he was someone I used to see from time to time when I lived in the Florida Keys. He owned a private island near Islamorada, and every so often, I would spot him around town, riding his bike, smiling, greeting people as though he belonged not to the world of Hollywood but to the easy rhythm of island life. These were nothing more than passing encounters, and yet, when I heard of his death, I felt something real, a small but genuine loss, as though the landscape of my past had shifted in some immeasurable way.
My brother-in-law’s passing was, of course, a different kind of loss, closer to home and felt more directly by those who loved him most. He was a kind man, known for his humor and his unwavering love for my sister and her children. And yet, even in the presence of grief, I found myself reflecting not just on his absence, but on something larger, how, as I approach the end of my fifties, I find myself encountering death more often. It is an inevitability of aging. More people I have known, or have known of, are dying. Their names appear in obituaries, their absence quietly accumulating in the background of life, making me turn inward, toward my own years, my own memories, and the life I am still in the midst of living.
Psychologically, grief is often framed as a reaction to loss, a process of coming to terms with the absence of someone we once had. But I have come to believe that grief is also a confrontation with time itself. It forces us to recognize that we are moving forward even when we do not feel as though we are. It compels us to look backward, to retrace memories that now hold an added significance simply because they can never be repeated. In many ways, grief is as much about the past as it is about the person we have lost.
This is something that psychologists have long studied. Theories of grief have evolved over the years, from Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, to more nuanced understandings that frame grief as a fluid, ongoing process rather than a linear one. Some researchers, like psychologist George Bonanno, suggest that resilience is a natural part of grief, that we are wired to adapt to loss in ways that do not always follow predictable patterns. Others, like continuing bonds theorists Dennis Klass and Phyllis Silverman, argue that grief is not about letting go but about finding new ways to maintain a relationship with the deceased, keeping them present in our lives in different, evolving ways.
Loss as a Marker of Time
What interests me most, and what I want to explore in this discussion, is how grief is tied to the passage of time, how loss forces us to reckon not just with absence, but with change. When a person dies, they do not simply disappear; they leave behind an imprint, a space that was once filled, a role that was once played in the theater of our individual lives. Their absence shifts the landscape, sometimes in ways we do not fully recognize until much later.
This is why we grieve not just for those we were close to, but also for those who occupied familiar spaces in our world. The passing of a family member is not the same as the death of a well-known public figure, but both can stir emotions we do not entirely expect. A familiar face, a recurring presence, even if distant, can become part of the fabric of our lives in ways we do not consciously acknowledge, until they are gone.
As I reflect on these recent losses, I find myself thinking not only about the people themselves but about the time they represent. My brother-in-law’s passing is a reminder of family, of the people who love us, who build lives with us, who leave behind legacies that exist in the form of children, stories, and shared experiences. Gene Hackman’s death, on the other hand, reminds me of a different kind of time, the cultural past, the movies I watched in younger years, the days I lived in the Florida Keys, the rhythm of life as it once was. His absence, like so many others, is not just about him. It is about me, about the ways in which I have moved through my own life, about the way time has moved me forward even when I wasn’t paying attention.
This is what I want to explore: how grief is not just about who we have lost, but about what their absence means for the way we understand our own existence. How the deaths of those we know, and those we only know from a distance, force us to reflect on time, identity, and the ways in which memory becomes one of the most enduring connections we have.
In the sections ahead, we will examine grief not just as a psychological process, but as a lens through which we can understand ourselves. We will explore how loss changes the way we see time, how it reshapes our memories, how it influences the stories we tell about our own lives. Because ultimately, grief is not just about what is gone. It is about what remains.
The Psychology of Grief: More Than Just Sadness
Grief is often misunderstood. It is frequently equated with sadness, as though mourning is a singular emotion, a heavy sorrow that lingers until it eventually fades. But anyone who has experienced loss knows that grief is not so simple. It is unpredictable, fluid, and deeply personal. It is not just an emotional reaction but a psychological process that reshapes our understanding of the world.
Psychologists have long attempted to map out this process, trying to bring order to an experience that often feels chaotic. The most well-known model, which I briefly mentioned above, is Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. While widely referenced, this framework has been misunderstood. Kübler-Ross herself never intended for these stages to be seen as rigid steps that must be followed in sequence. Rather, they were observations of common emotional responses to terminal illness, later applied to bereavement. In reality, grief does not follow a checklist. It does not move in a straight line. People do not necessarily experience every stage, nor do they reach “acceptance” in a final, conclusive way.
More contemporary theories of grief emphasize its complexity. Psychologist George Bonanno, in his work on bereavement and resilience, has argued that grief is not always a prolonged, devastating experience. Many people adapt to loss more quickly than traditional theories suggest, often oscillating between moments of deep sorrow and moments of normalcy. This contradicts the assumption that grief must always be long and painful to be legitimate. Instead, Bonanno’s research shows that resilience is the most common response to loss. People find ways to integrate grief into their lives, sometimes more smoothly than they expect.
This does not mean grief is easy or that moving forward is simple. What it does mean is that grief is not just about sadness. It is about adjustment, about learning to live in a world that has been altered by someone’s absence. Some losses feel immediate and shattering, changing everything in an instant. Others are quieter, creeping in over time, revealing their impact in subtle ways.
The loss of a loved one, especially someone we were close to, often brings a profound shift in identity. Psychologists call this “role loss”, the way our identity is shaped by our relationships, and how their absence forces us to redefine ourselves. A person who loses a spouse is not just mourning their partner but also the role they played as a husband or wife. A parent who loses a child is grieving not just their son or daughter but their own identity as a caregiver, protector, and guide. Grief, in this sense, is not only about missing someone; it is about reorganizing one’s sense of self in a world where that person is no longer physically present.
But what happens when the person we lose is not someone we were particularly close to? What happens when the loss is of a distant relative, a former acquaintance, or even a public figure? Many people feel an unspoken discomfort in grieving someone they did not have a deep, personal relationship with. There is often a sense that mourning should be reserved for those we knew intimately. And yet, people frequently experience a kind of grief for individuals they have never met, celebrities, artists, political leaders, especially those who were present in the cultural backdrop of their lives.
The death of Princess Diana in 1997 is perhaps one of the most striking examples of this phenomenon. The world seemed to hold its breath when the news broke, and in the days that followed, an unprecedented wave of grief swept across nations. People who had never met her gathered in the streets, wept openly, left flowers by the thousands outside Buckingham Palace. It was as if something deeply personal had been lost, even for those who had only ever seen her in magazines or on television. But what exactly were people mourning? It was not just the person, but what she represented, youth, compassion, a new kind of royalty that felt closer to the public. Her death was a rupture in the narrative of hope and change she had come to symbolize.
Similar reactions have followed the deaths of other world figures. When John F. Kennedy was assassinated, a generation felt as though its sense of optimism had been stripped away in an instant. The death of Martin Luther King Jr. was not only the loss of a man but the loss of a voice that had carried hope and moral authority. Robin Williams’ passing in 2014 left many grappling with the contrast between the joy he had given the world and the pain he had suffered in private. In each of these cases, the grief extended beyond personal connection, people were mourning not just the individual, but the era they represented, the ideals they embodied, the feeling that the world had changed in their absence.
Psychologists have studied this kind of public mourning, exploring why we grieve figures we never personally knew. One explanation is parasocial attachment, a term used to describe the one-sided relationships people form with public figures. Through repeated exposure, whether in film, politics, or social activism, these individuals become psychologically familiar, even if the relationship is entirely distant. When they die, it can feel as though a personal connection has been severed, even though it was never truly reciprocal.
The same can be said for more casual, repeated encounters, those individuals who were not part of our inner circle but whose presence was felt in a meaningful way. Seeing Gene Hackman in the Florida Keys, waving as he rode his bike, was never a defining moment of my life. And yet, when I heard of his death, there was a quiet sadness, a recognition that something familiar had disappeared. His presence had been woven into a certain chapter of my past, and his absence became a reminder of how that past is no longer accessible in the same way.
This is what makes grief more than just sadness. It is a confrontation with time. It forces us to acknowledge that the world does not stay the same, that people leave, that moments slip further away from us even as we try to hold onto them. It is not just about mourning the person, it is about mourning the version of ourselves that existed when they were still here.
As we move forward, the question is not whether we will grieve, but how we will integrate loss into our lives. Some people cling to the past, keeping their grief in the foreground, while others gradually let it settle into the background, not as an absence, but as a presence that has simply changed form. Neither response is right or wrong, grief is not a problem to be solved but an experience to be understood.
And so, as I reflect on recent losses, both personal and distant, I find myself asking not just what I have lost, but what remains. What of these people, these presences, still lingers in my memory? How do their stories, their influence, their existence continue in some way within me?
These are the questions grief invites us to explore; not just as a process of mourning, but as a way of making sense of the lives we are still living.
The Unexpected Weight of Familiar Figures
There are certain moments in life when the world feels fundamentally altered, not by personal tragedy, but by the loss of figures who once seemed like fixed points in time. Their absence is felt not because of personal relationships, but because they occupied a space in the background of our lives, shaping our cultural experience in ways we rarely acknowledged until they were gone.
Cultural Icons and Collective Memory
This phenomenon is particularly evident when a well-known figure dies suddenly or unexpectedly. The public response to the deaths of Princess Diana, Kobe Bryant, and Robin Williams illustrates how collective mourning extends beyond immediate friends and family. It is as if something in the fabric of reality has shifted, an era has closed, a familiar voice has been silenced, a presence that once felt permanent has vanished. These figures, through their visibility, became woven into personal histories, even for those who never met them.
Psychologists have studied this kind of grief, particularly in relation to symbolic loss, the idea that some deaths represent more than just the person who has passed. Princess Diana’s death was not just the loss of a royal; it was the loss of an icon who represented youth, change, and the possibility of a more modern, humanized monarchy. Robin Williams’ passing was not just about an actor, it forced a public reckoning with the reality of mental health struggles hidden beneath public personas. These deaths do not just bring sadness; they disrupt narratives we had unknowingly constructed about the continuity of life.
There is also an element of temporal grief, the recognition that when someone who was once a fixture of our cultural landscape dies, it is not just their presence that disappears, it is also a reminder that time itself has moved forward. The world that contained them is slipping further into the past, and with it, a part of our own history. This may explain why people often revisit old films, books, or speeches after a public figure’s death, as if grasping for the moments when that person was still part of the world’s living memory.
Personal Loss vs. the Loss of Eras
There is a difference between grieving a loved one and feeling the weight of a public figure’s passing, but the two experiences share an important similarity: both require an internal restructuring of the world as we know it. When a close family member dies, their absence is deeply personal, it disrupts daily life, alters relationships, and creates an undeniable void. But when a cultural figure dies, the loss can feel symbolic, marking the end of something larger than the individual.
For example, the death of a beloved actor or musician often triggers memories not just of their work, but of the time in life when their presence was most meaningful. The songs of Whitney Houston, the performances of Philip Seymour Hoffman, the activism of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the kindness and service of President Jimmy Carter, each of these figures left a mark that extended beyond their individual existence. Their passing was felt not only as an individual loss but as the closing of a chapter in history.
This distinction between personal grief and cultural grief does not make one more or less significant than the other. Instead, it highlights the different ways in which we process absence. Personal grief forces an immediate confrontation with change, whereas cultural grief is more gradual, unfolding over time as the world continues without the person who once shaped it. Both, however, remind us that loss is not just about mourning an individual; it is about reconciling with the passage of time and the evolving nature of our own lives.
Time and the Emotional Weight of Small Interactions
How Familiarity Creates Emotional Attachment
Grief is often thought of as a reaction to deep, personal loss, but psychology suggests that familiarity alone can create a sense of attachment. We do not have to know someone intimately to feel their absence. Over time, repeated exposure to a person, whether in real life, through media, or even in passing interactions, creates a form of recognition that feels stable, almost permanent. When that person is gone, it is not just their presence that is missing, but a piece of the environment we once took for granted.
Psychologists refer to this as the mere exposure effect, the idea that the more frequently we encounter someone or something, the more we develop a sense of connection to it. This is why people often feel a strange emptiness when a neighbor they barely spoke to moves away or when a barista they saw every morning suddenly stops working at their favorite coffee shop. The absence of these individuals disrupts a rhythm of life that had once felt steady, even if the relationship itself was not personal.
This principle helps explain why the loss of well-known figures can feel more profound than we expect. When someone has been part of the cultural landscape for decades, appearing in films, interviews, or historical events, their presence becomes an unspoken part of the world as we know it. Their passing forces a confrontation with the fact that time is moving forward, that eras are closing, and that the people who once occupied familiar spaces, whether in our personal lives or in the background of society, will not always be there.
The Presence of Absence: When Loss Reshapes Perception
Once a person is gone, whether they were deeply known or just a familiar presence, the way we experience the world subtly shifts. Psychologists call this the continuity principle of grief, the idea that those who have died continue to exist in our mental and emotional landscape, influencing how we see the world long after they are gone.
This is evident in the way people unconsciously search for lost presences in familiar places. A widow may find herself instinctively reaching for her late husband’s hand while walking down the street, only to remember he is no longer there. A longtime fan of a musician may hear a new song and instinctively wonder what that artist would have thought of it, before remembering they have passed. The mind maintains the presence of those we have lost, even in their absence.
This phenomenon is particularly striking when we revisit places where someone was once a fixture. A familiar restaurant, a neighborhood street, a favorite vacation spot, these locations take on a different weight when the people we once associated with them are no longer there. The absence becomes a presence in itself, a quiet reminder of what once was.
This is why loss is often not felt all at once, but in fragments, surfacing in unexpected moments. A street once walked together. A phrase they used to say. A song playing in the background of a grocery store. These small moments carry an emotional weight that is difficult to put into words, but they serve as proof that even after someone is gone, they remain woven into the fabric of our lives.
Grief, then, is not just about sadness. It is about the slow realization that the world has changed in a way that cannot be undone. It is the understanding that time does not preserve anything in its original form, no matter how much we may wish it to. And yet, the emotional imprints left by those who have been part of our lives, whether closely or distantly, remain with us, shaping the way we remember, the way we reflect, and ultimately, the way we move forward.
Grief as a Reflection of Our Own Mortality
Grief has a way of turning our gaze inward, forcing us to reflect not just on the person we have lost, but on the passage of time itself. It is one of the few human experiences that demands a confrontation with our own mortality. When someone dies, whether they were a loved one, a public figure, or simply a familiar presence, it is not just their absence we process. It is also the realization that life is moving forward, that time is slipping away, and that one day, we too will be the ones who are remembered rather than the ones who remember.
Loss as a Mirror of Time
This is why grief often carries a weight beyond the loss itself. When an older relative passes away, it can feel like the end of a familial era, as though a generation has been quietly ushered into history. The death of a childhood friend or peer carries a different gravity, it serves as an undeniable reminder that we are no longer as young as we once were, that the future is no longer an abstract idea but something that is unfolding in real time. And when public figures we grew up with pass away, it is not just their lives that we mourn, but the piece of our own history that feels further away than ever before.
Psychologists call this mortality salience, the awareness of death that is triggered when we encounter loss. Studies in terror management theory, developed by Jeff Greenberg, Sheldon Solomon, and Tom Pyszczynski, suggest that human beings are uniquely troubled by the knowledge of their own impermanence. Unlike other animals, we have the cognitive ability to understand that one day, our existence will come to an end. This realization creates a fundamental tension, one that we often suppress in daily life but that surfaces in moments of grief.
When someone dies, especially someone we have known for decades, there is a shift in perception. The past suddenly feels further away. The future feels less certain. And the present, fleeting as it already is, becomes something to be held onto more tightly.
The Psychological Need for Legacy
Because grief forces us to confront our mortality, it also brings to light a question that lingers beneath the surface of human existence: What will remain of us when we are gone?
This is where the concept of symbolic immortality comes in, the idea that while our physical lives are finite, our influence, our stories, and the impact we leave behind can continue beyond our lifetime. Psychologist Robert Jay Lifton identified five primary ways in which people seek symbolic immortality:
Biological continuity, Living on through children and future generations.
Creative continuity, Leaving behind works of art, literature, inventions, or contributions to society.
Natural continuity, Finding meaning in being part of the larger cycle of nature and the universe.
Experiential transcendence, Pursuing spiritual or mystical experiences that create a sense of timelessness.
Cultural continuity, Being remembered within a community, religion, or nation.
In moments of loss, we often look for evidence of this kind of continuity. We revisit the words of a writer who has passed, listen to the music of an artist who is no longer here, or tell stories about loved ones in an effort to keep them present. Even small gestures, like mentioning someone’s name in conversation or keeping an old letter, serve as a form of resistance against the idea that death is final.
This is why people build monuments, write memoirs, name scholarships after loved ones. It is why we hold funerals, create photo albums, and revisit the places where memories were made. Even in small, private ways, grief fuels the need to keep something of the past alive.
But grief does not only make us reflect on the legacy of others, it makes us reflect on our own. If loss is a reminder that time is limited, it also becomes a catalyst for considering what we want to leave behind. In mourning others, we are inevitably confronted with the question: How will I be remembered?
This is not a question that can be answered easily, nor should it be. But in many ways, grief is not just about looking back, it is also about looking forward, about recognizing that our lives are still unfolding, that we still have the opportunity to shape what remains after we are gone.
And so, while grief may begin as a response to loss, it ultimately becomes a conversation with time itself. It asks us to not only mourn those who have left but to consider what we will do with the time we still have.
The Stories We Keep: Preserving Legacy and Meaning
Grief does not erase the presence of those we have lost; it transforms it. The people who once stood beside us, who filled our lives with laughter, wisdom, or even fleeting moments of recognition, do not simply disappear. Instead, they take on a new form, existing in the stories we tell, the lessons they imparted, the memories that remain woven into the fabric of our own lives.
Memory as a Bridge Between Past and Present
Psychologists who study grief often emphasize that mourning is not about severing ties with the deceased, but about continuing bonds, a concept that challenges the idea that “moving on” requires letting go. Dennis Klass, Phyllis Silverman, and Steven Nickman, who pioneered this perspective, argue that people find ways to maintain a connection with those they have lost, integrating their presence into daily life in ways both large and small. A father who taught his daughter how to fix a car lives on each time she turns a wrench. A mentor who once offered encouragement continues to shape decisions long after they are gone. Even those we knew from a distance, a musician whose lyrics spoke to us, a historical figure whose story inspired us, remain with us, not in physical form, but in the ways they shaped our thinking and perception of the world.
This is why we revisit the past, why we tell stories again and again, why certain names are spoken long after a person is gone. It is not simply nostalgia, it is a psychological need to preserve meaning.
The act of storytelling itself is one of the most powerful ways human beings process grief. In many cultures, oral traditions ensure that those who have passed remain part of collective memory. In personal lives, recalling the past is often a way of reaffirming what mattered most about the person who is no longer here. We tell stories about their kindness, their humor, the quirks that made them unique, because in doing so, we keep them from vanishing entirely.
The Role of Rituals in Grief
Rituals, whether private or communal, serve as another means of preserving legacy. This is why we light candles, visit cemeteries, keep mementos, and hold anniversaries of passing. Even in informal ways, we create rituals of remembrance, replaying a favorite song, revisiting a special place, preparing a dish the way a loved one once did. These actions are not just sentimental; they serve a psychological function, helping us maintain a connection to the past while continuing to move forward in life.
Research on grief rituals suggests that they provide a sense of structure and control in a time of loss. James W. Pennebaker, a psychologist known for his work on expressive writing and trauma, has shown that storytelling, whether spoken, written, or enacted through ritual, helps people process emotions in a way that promotes healing. By engaging in acts of remembrance, we do not dwell on grief, but rather, we give it a place within our lives where it does not overwhelm us.
This is perhaps why people often find themselves returning to places associated with those they have lost, even years later. Standing in a place that once held their presence can offer a moment of reflection, a quiet acknowledgment that while life moves forward, the past is never truly left behind.
Living With Loss, Living With Time
Grief does not ask us to forget. It does not demand that we erase the presence of those we have lost. Instead, it invites us to reshape our relationship with them, to carry forward what they left behind, to allow their impact to remain, even as life continues to unfold without them.
As I reflect on recent losses, both personal and distant, I find myself drawn less to sorrow and more to the weight of time itself. Each loss, in its own way, is a marker, reminding me that the world I once knew is changing, that the people who once walked beside me or who simply existed in the periphery of my life will not always be there. And yet, their absence does not mean they are gone. The presence of a person does not end with their physical departure, it continues in memory, in stories, in the ways they shaped the lives of those who remain.
Grief, then, is not just about mourning what has been lost. It is also about recognizing what endures. It is about understanding that while time moves forward, it does not erase the past, it simply transforms it. And as long as we remember, as long as we continue to carry forward the lessons, the laughter, the moments that mattered, those we have lost are never truly absent.
They remain, not as ghosts, but as echoes, subtle, persistent, shaping the way we live, the way we love, and the way we, too, will one day be remembered.