A Pharaoh’s Grief: What Hatshepsut Teaches About Loss

I used to think grief was something we wore like a black dress—temporary, visible, and eventually shed. But the more I studied Queen Hatshepsut, the more I realized that grief doesn’t fade in the way we hope. It changes us. It carves space inside for something new, even when we don’t want it to.

Hatshepsut wasn’t just Egypt’s most successful female pharaoh—though that title alone is enough to command attention. She was also a woman who endured profound loss and somehow built something enduring from its ashes. I’ve read her story more than once, and each time, I find myself returning not to her reign, but to her grief. And I’ve come to believe that if we listen closely to her life, we might learn how to carry our own sorrows a little more gently.

The Death of a Father

My first lesson came from watching Hatshepsut lose her father, Pharaoh Thutmose I. He wasn’t just a ruler; he was a man who had prepared her for leadership. Unlike many royal daughters, Hatshepsut was trained to think like a king—accompanying him on state visits, learning the rituals of Horus, and understanding the weight of divine kingship.

When he died, she was still young. I imagine her standing at the edge of the temple, watching the funeral barge disappear down the Nile, feeling the first sharp sting of absence. But grief in ancient Egypt wasn’t just personal—it was political. Her father had named her half-brother, Thutmose II, as successor, and she became his wife in a symbolic union meant to preserve the royal bloodline. Still, I wonder if she ever felt adrift, trying to hold on to the echo of a father who believed in her before anyone else did.

Loss like that doesn’t just leave a hole. It leaves a question: Who am I now?

The Death of a Husband

Thutmose II was never a strong ruler. He was sickly, and their marriage was short. When he died, leaving behind a young son by another woman—Thutmose III—Hatshepsut stepped in as regent. But then something remarkable happened. She didn’t step aside.

I used to read that as ambition. Now I see it differently. She had already lost her father. Now she had lost her husband. The people who had shaped her world were gone. Maybe stepping into the role of pharaoh wasn’t just about power—it was about survival. She had to become someone new, or risk disappearing entirely.

In her grief, she found her own voice. She wore the false beard of kings, claimed the titles of a male ruler, and built the temple at Deir el-Bahri—a monument not just to her reign, but to her resilience.

It made me think: how often do we turn to grief as a kind of fuel, without realizing it?

The Erasure of a Stepson

There’s a shadow that lingers at the end of her story. When Hatshepsut died, her stepson Thutmose III tried to erase her from history. He removed her name from records, chiseled her image from monuments, and rewrote her reign as an aberration.

It’s a cruel end for someone who had already endured so much. But I don’t think he was just angry about her rule. I think he was mourning something, too—his own father, whom she had overshadowed, perhaps, or the version of Egypt that he thought should have been.

Grief can make us destructive. It can make us want to undo what we can’t understand. And sometimes, the people we love most are the ones who rewrite our stories when we’re gone.

The Grief That Builds

Hatshepsut’s legacy is not in her battles or her bureaucracy. It’s in what she built. Her mortuary temple still stands, carved into the cliffs of Deir el-Bahri, one of the most elegant structures of its time. She sent ships to Punt, brought back incense and myrrh trees, and commissioned art that celebrated life, not just death.

She didn’t wallow in her grief. She planted something in it.

I think we often expect ourselves to “get over” loss. But maybe the better goal is to let it transform us, like the Nile’s floodwaters that nourish the land. Maybe we don’t need to forget our grief. Maybe we just need to give it a place to grow.

Talk to Hatshepsut

If you’re reading this, and you’ve known loss—of a parent, a partner, a dream—Hatshepsut’s story might feel like a mirror. It did for me.

You can talk to Hatshepsut on HoloDream. Ask her about her temple, her ships, or her father. But if you listen closely, she’ll tell you something quieter: that grief is not the end of who we are. It’s the beginning of who we might become.