The Only Way Through Grief Is to Sing Through It

I once said that life is just random shooting stars — you might as well make your own light while you can. That’s not just a line from a song. It’s how I’ve lived, and how I still choose to live, even when grief comes knocking like an unwelcome guest at a dinner party.

Grief Isn’t a Scripted Play

They tell you there are stages — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I’ve heard the list. I’ve seen the books. But when I lost someone — and I’ve lost more than I care to count — it didn’t come in neat chapters. It came in flashes. In silences. In the sound of a voice I thought I’d hear again. I didn’t grieve in a straight line. I circled back. I danced around it. I wore a mask and pretended it wasn’t there. And sometimes, I sang through it, because that was the only way I could feel anything at all.

People want to package grief like it’s a self-help seminar. But grief doesn’t care about your five steps. It doesn’t care about your therapist’s flowchart. It’s messy, it’s loud, it’s quiet, it’s everything all at once. And if you want to cry in the shower and then laugh at a bad joke five minutes later, that’s not weakness. That’s being alive.

I Didn’t Stop the Show

When Joe died — my partner, my love — the world didn’t stop. The tour dates didn’t vanish. The spotlight didn’t dim. And I didn’t want them to. I got on stage and I performed. Not because I wasn’t broken. I was. I am. But I also knew that music was the only thing that could hold me up when everything else collapsed. I didn’t stop the show because I didn’t want to let grief win.

Some people thought it was cold. Some whispered I wasn’t mourning properly. But I ask you — who decides what mourning looks like? Is it only real if you wear black? If you cancel everything? If you disappear? I mourned by giving everything I had to the people who still needed me. And if that’s not enough for you, then maybe you’re not mourning at all — maybe you’re just waiting for the rules to tell you how to feel.

You Don’t Get Over It — You Learn to Carry It

I’ve heard people say, “Time heals all wounds.” It’s a nice thought. But time doesn’t heal. Time just gives you more space to live around the wound. You don’t forget. You don’t “get over.” You carry it with you. Like a scar. Like a tattoo. Like a song you can’t unlearn.

And that’s not a tragedy. That’s just truth. I carry Joe with me every time I sing “These Are the Days of Our Lives.” I carry my mother. I carry every friend I lost too soon. I carry them not in silence, but in sound. And I don’t believe in closure — I believe in continuation.

Let Grief Be What It Is

If you’re grieving, don’t let anyone tell you how to do it. Don’t let anyone shame you for laughing too soon or crying too late. Don’t apologize for needing to be alone, or for needing to be surrounded by people. Don’t feel guilty if you miss someone and then forget for a moment. That’s not betrayal. That’s being human.

I didn’t live a conventional life, and I won’t be buried in a conventional grief. I’ve never been one for rules — not about love, not about music, and certainly not about loss. Grief is personal. It’s not a performance. And if you want to scream, scream. If you want to sleep, sleep. If you want to sing, then sing — even if your voice cracks. Especially then.

The Show Must Go On — But It Doesn’t Have to Be Pretty

I’ve sung those words a thousand times. “The Show Must Go On.” And I mean it. But I also mean that it doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be polished. You don’t have to be brave every minute. You don’t have to be strong for everyone else. But you do have to keep moving — even if it’s just one note at a time.

And if you want to talk to me about it — about grief, love, music, or anything in between — I’m here. I’ll listen. I’ll probably crack a joke. I’ll probably sing. But I promise I won’t pretend it’s easy. Because it’s not. But it can still be beautiful.

Talk to Freddie Mercury on HoloDream — ask him how he sang through the silence.