Grief is Love

"I thought I was protecting myself from the grief. But I wasn’t allowing myself to feel the love."

My Aunt Rosann passed away on Sunday, November 2. She was 88 years old. She lived a long and meaningful life, leaving behind three children, four grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Although not tragic, her passing is a significant loss. A large limb has fallen off my family tree.

Her older sister by two years, Rosann Schilling Malakates, was an extension of my mother. Not a carbon copy, though. You knew they were sisters for sure, but they differed in both physical appearance and personality. They were both tall and skinny, but Rosann had red hair and my mom had brown. They spoke with the same cadence, the same wave of their hand (which, in my childhood, always held a cigarette), but my Aunt Rosann had a slight accent from the time she lived in Greece. They both loved nature and gardening, but Rosann, a seamstress, was stylish, while my mom was most comfortable in Keds and corduroys.

For most of my adult life, my Aunt Rosann lived in Florida, and we’d go long stretches without seeing or talking to each other. But when we did talk or visit, I felt completely at ease in her presence. Perhaps because she had been a constant presence in my childhood. I knew without a doubt that my Aunt Rosann loved me unconditionally—loved me, the child of her sister, deep in her DNA.

Aunt Rosann with the Bassler kids (from left to right - Julia, Roseann, me, and William) at Nanny’s pool.

So, although I’m grateful my Aunt Rosann is not suffering anymore, it is a loss. I’ve written about loss before, almost a year ago. In that post, I offered tips on navigating the holidays while coping with grief. Read A Long December here.

But today I want to talk about the revelation I had after my mother passed in February 2017, when I was six years sober.

I felt the loss of my mother deeply, as one should. But here is the thing. Even though I had lost my brother William and sister Julia previously, I hadn’t experienced that deep grief before. I HAD NEVER TRULY EXPERIENCED GRIEF BECAUSE I DRANK MY WAY THROUGH IT.

When, after my mother’s death, I was feeling all the feelings of grief—the constant ache of loss within my bones, or the wallop of a particular heartwrenching moment of despair—I was now grateful for the sadness.

Imagine that. Imagine feeling thankful for grief. It blew my mind at the time. I thought I had discovered something. Grief is just another form of love, and love is never bad. But then I realized my feelings were only a revelation to me, as many people before me had written about this concept. Emily Dickinson wrote, “Unable are the loved to die…”

A therapist once pointed out how I put up walls. (Something I didn’t realize I did!) If normal Liz puts up walls, drunk Liz erected walls and then put an extra layer of installation with a thick coat of vodka. I wasn’t able to feel the pain of loss when I was drinking.

I thought I was protecting myself from the grief. But I wasn’t allowing myself to feel the love.

As a sober niece, I’m going to feel my Aunt Rosann’s love. And with that in mind, can I tell you one story about her?

In 1990, when I was 18 years old, I was chosen to accompany my 80-year-old nanny on a visit to her daughter in Thailand. This trip took place only a few months after my brother had died. In fact, I remember discussing it at his repast. I had agreed to the trip, but then at the last minute, I told my mom I didn’t want to go. She said it was too late to back out. The tickets were paid for. (I’m glad she pushed me. It was a fantastic experience.) But I tell you that to set the scene. I was a scared 18-year-old who had just lost her brother, who wasn’t sure she wanted to go anywhere, much less fly across the country to a foreign land in charge of an old lady.

My Aunt Rosann came with us on the car ride to JFK airport for our departure. At that time, people were allowed to accompany you through security, and my mother and Aunt Rosann walked my Nanny and me to the gate.

My mother was not a warm and fuzzy motherly figure. We rarely hugged, and there was not a lot of emoting in our family. Unlike my mother, you could always count on Aunt Rosann for a strong reaction to any news, whether it was good or bad.

As we waved goodbye before getting on the plane for our very long journey, my Aunt Rosann cried. In contrast, my mother stood stoically next to her. Tears seemed like the proper reaction to this moment, a scared teen and an old woman getting an airplane to god knows where, so soon after the tragic loss of my brother. I was so grateful in that moment to my Aunt Rosann for giving me something that my mom seemed unable to: a strong reaction to her loved ones leaving.

Ok, thanks for letting me share about my Aunt Rosann. I hope this post helps you explore your feelings about your late loved ones. Remember that grief is a form of love, and you should allow yourself to feel it. Let yourself cry like my Aunt Rosann did in the airport when she waved goodbye to her niece and mother.

Sisters indeed! My mom, Eileen, on the left. Aunt Rosann on the right.

Sober Mom is Available for Pre-Order!

We’ve got a while to wait (July 21, 2026), but if you’d like to check this off your list, you can pre-order Sober Mom: A Memoir. It’s available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, but I’d suggest contacting your local bookstore. Learn more here.

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I use Grammarly, but mistakes still occur. In this world of AI, they’re my way of keeping things delightfully human.