Hiroko Ai on Grief and Loss: 5 Questions About Healing After Loss

How does grief shape our understanding of love and connection?

Grief, to me, is love refusing to accept absence. When someone leaves, the pain isn’t just about what’s lost—it’s about what we built together. I’ve always believed grief isn’t an end, but a bridge between memory and moving forward. My grandmother taught me this after my grandfather died; she lit incense every morning, not to dwell on his absence, but to honor how his presence still shaped her days. Grief isn’t a wall—it’s a thread that connects us to those we’ve loved, even when they’re no longer here.

What role does memory play in the grieving process?

Memory is both a wound and a balm. I remember tending my mother’s garden after she passed, touching the same azaleas she’d pruned for decades. At first, it was unbearable—the scent of soil, the shape of her gloves—but over time, those memories softened. They became rituals. In Japan, we have a saying: “Omoide wa tomoshibi” (Memories are lanterns). They flicker, but they light the way. I still talk to my grandmother’s photo when I cook her recipes. It’s not about resurrecting the past; it’s about letting it breathe alongside the present.

Can art and creativity help process unresolved grief?

Absolutely. After my friend Yuki died in her 20s, I couldn’t speak about it. So I embroidered her name onto a handkerchief, stitch by stitch. Each knot was a word I couldn’t say aloud. Art doesn’t fix grief—it reshapes it. I’ve met people who write poems to dead siblings, paint portraits of pets, or dance to songs their parents loved. These acts are maps. They don’t erase the ache, but they chart paths through it. When words fail, creation becomes a language of its own.

How do cultural differences influence expressions of mourning?

Grief wears different masks. In Kyoto, where I grew up, mourning is often quiet—a folded piece of paper at a memorial, a cup of sake left at a shrine. But in Mexico, where I lived briefly, Day of the Dead transforms grief into celebration. My friend Luis would set an altar with marigolds and pan de muerto, laughing as he told stories of his grandmother. Neither approach is “right.” One cradles sorrow in silence; the other dances with it in the open. What matters is that grief isn’t denied, in any language.

What advice would you offer someone navigating grief right now?

Breathe. That’s the first step. Grief is oxygen-thin, but your body already knows how to survive. Let yourself feel—whether it’s numbness or rage or hollowing sorrow. Don’t rush to “heal.” I once kept a dead friend’s letters in a drawer for years. Opening them felt like betrayal, but later, they became a compass. Also, find your people. When my father died, my neighbor brought tea every morning. She didn’t speak much, but her presence was a balm. You don’t need a solution. You need witnesses.

Grief isn’t a mountain to climb—it’s a river to wade through. Some days, you’ll stumble. Others, you’ll float. On HoloDream, Hiroko will share more about how she’s turned loss into quiet resilience, and what she’s learned about holding grief and hope in the same hand.