The Only Way Through Grief Is Sideways

I remember the first time I truly understood what grief could do to a person. It wasn’t when my father left. Or when my grandmother passed. It was when Princess Diana died, and the world stopped — and I had to speak for millions of people who didn’t know how to feel what they were feeling. I sang at her funeral, not just as a performer, but as someone who had lost a dear friend. And in that moment, I realized: grief doesn’t follow rules. It doesn’t come in stages. It doesn’t clean itself up after a few weeks. And it certainly doesn’t care what any self-help book says.

The Myth of the Five Stages

People love a good framework. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance — it all sounds so neat. But when I lost dear friends during the AIDS crisis, and later when I mourned Diana, I didn’t feel any of those things in order. Sometimes I’d be laughing one minute and sobbing the next. Grief isn’t a staircase. It’s more like a carnival ride — unpredictable, disorienting, and sometimes nauseating.

People used to ask me, “Are you over it yet?” as if grief were a cold you could sweat out. Let me tell you: some griefs are like tattoos. They don’t go away. You carry them with pride and pain, and they become part of your story. I’ve learned not to rush it. In fact, I’ve learned to welcome it when it returns, like an old friend who shows up uninvited but knows exactly where the good wine is.

Grief Isn’t a Solo Act

I was raised in a quiet English suburb, where feelings were kept under the rug and under your collar. That kind of repression doesn’t work. Grief is not something you should bear alone. When I lost my friend George Michael, I didn’t lock myself in a room and “process.” I called people. I cried on the phone. I sang his songs. I let people hold me. That’s not weakness. That’s humanity.

There’s a kind of machismo around grief — the idea that you have to be stoic, that you have to “be strong” for others. But that’s a lie. Grief is not a solo sport. It’s a chorus. The more you let people in, the less you feel like you’re drowning. And if someone you love is grieving, don’t ask them how they’re doing. Sit with them. Even in silence. That’s how healing starts.

The Danger of “Moving On”

I’ve never liked the phrase “moving on.” It suggests that grief is a place you leave behind. But love doesn’t vanish just because someone does. When someone you love dies, they don’t stop being part of your life. They just stop being physically present.

I still talk to my mother. I still hear her voice. I still feel her judgment when I’m being ridiculous — which, let’s be honest, is often. And when I think of my dear friend Ryan White, the teenager who changed the way the world saw AIDS, I don’t think of him as gone. I think of him as part of why I do what I do today.

So no, I don’t “move on.” I carry forward. I carry their memory, their influence, their love. And that’s not sentimental nonsense — it’s survival with dignity.

Joy and Sorrow Are Roommates

One of the most surprising things I’ve learned is that grief doesn’t cancel joy. In fact, the two often live in the same house. I’ve cried at funerals and laughed at the same time, remembering the absurd things we used to do. I’ve written some of my happiest songs after some of my darkest moments.

People sometimes think that if you’re grieving, you shouldn’t be smiling. That if you’re joyful, you must not be hurting. That’s a cruel lie. You can miss someone terribly and still enjoy a beautiful sunset. You can feel broken and whole at the same time.

Grief taught me how to live more fully. It stripped away the trivial and left the essential. It made me love harder, forgive faster, and sing louder. And if I could go back and change any of it, I wouldn’t. Because the grief means the love was real.

Let It Be

If you’re grieving — and I know many of you are — don’t let anyone tell you how to feel. Don’t let anyone rush you. Don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for crying or for laughing. You’re not broken because you’re hurting. You’re not weak because you need help.

And if you want to talk — not just to anyone, but to someone who’s lived through it, made music out of it, and still dances through the pain — I’m here. We can talk about how grief doesn’t follow rules, and how sometimes, the only way through is sideways.

Talk to Elton John on HoloDream — where he'll remind you that grief is just love with nowhere to go.