What is ‘complicated grief’? A psychotherapist shares her personal experience

By Nidhi Chopra

For the longest time, words like grief, trauma and bereavement never seemed to fully capture my experience. They felt too narrow to describe what I was feeling, always falling short of my lived reality.

I’m writing this to bear witness to my own journey from acute trauma to complex grief – and to those who have experienced something similar. It’s about sharing my story, not as advice, but as a way for others to perhaps name what they’re feeling, while giving loved ones a window into what we go through.

By the time the world was ready to administer the first batch of Covid-19 vaccines to senior citizens in early 2021, my father had already been living in isolation for over a year. He had, in fact, been living alone in India since the end of 2019, following the death of my m other the year before.

In April 2021, he received his first dose of the vaccine. Within days, he started experiencing pain in various parts of his body. Despite several teleconsultations with doctors and heavy doses of pain medication, his symptoms didn’t improve.

Amid a strict lockdown, my brother (who lives in Dubai) decided that he would fly to India immediately to be with him, while I worked on getting permission from the Singapore ministry to travel in the coming days.

That night, my father and I had a long conversation. I reassured him that we were coming over, but he was worried about our safety since neither my brother nor I had been vaccinated. I stayed on the video call with him until he had his meal and took his medication, promising him that we would see him soon.

He passed away before we could reach him.

What followed was one of the toughest challenges of my life – a challenge that slowly but surely reshaped my worldview and altered my behaviour in ways I never could have predicted.

It led me down a long and difficult journey to understand grief – more specifically, the phenomenon known as Complicated Grief / Complex Grief (CG), or what is now referred to as Prolonged Grief Disorder. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual defines this as “the development of a persistent grief response characterised by intense yearning or longing for the deceased person – often accompanied by profound sorrow and frequent crying – or preoccupation with thoughts or memories of the deceased for more than a year”.

CG can also be complicated with comorbidities such as post-traumatic stress disorder, especially in cases of bereavement following a sudden, violent or unexpected death.

Trauma, as defined in psychological terms, is “a sudden and forceful event that overwhelms a person’s ability to respond to it.”

Trauma can occur when an event contradicts one’s worldview and exceeds one’s capacity to cope.

That morning, while my brother was already on his flight, my father’s helper called me at around 6 a.m. my time. She had been trying to wake him up, but he hadn’t stirred. I asked her to bring the phone near him.

I remember standing by my bedroom balcony, calling out to him loudly, hoping he would hear me. He moved his arm but didn’t wake up. That’s when I felt an unsettling feeling in my stomach, and my heart rate spiked. I couldn’t shake the flashback to my mother’s death three years earlier – it was like my body remembered what had happened even before my mind could process it.

I immediately told the helper to push on his chest, as hard as she could. My husband, confused, asked me why I was disturbing him in his sleep. I couldn’t explain myself – I was acting on pure instinct.

This is what trauma does to you: it makes you “re-experience” things. The symptoms can be triggered by something that feels familiar – some sort of cue that reminds you of past traumatic events. In this case, it was the sudden, unexpected death of my mother.

For the next hour, I frantically called relatives and neighbours for help. Eventually, the family doctor arrived and confirmed what I already knew: he was gone.

The flight back home, which should’ve been around five hours, took me nearly 12 with three stopovers. In those moments, cognitively, I was functioning – doing what needed to be done. I handled the formalities, filled out the paperwork, and endured the long queues. I remember feeling strangely calm as I navigated the process: securing special permission, completing exit formalities, and staying composed in front of the staff.

But emotionally? I was numb.

It was like I was going through the motions, acting like everything was fine, even though inside, I felt completely disconnected. I remember walking into my parents’ home and hugging my brother, both of us realising we were suddenly orphans before the age of 40. It was a strange, surreal feeling.

Under normal circumstances, death rituals are meant to be therapeutic. They help a family or community grieve together, offering you time to mourn and keep the focus on the deceased before slowly moving on with life.

But for us, that didn’t happen. No relatives, friends, or neighbours could gather around us because of Covid restrictions. Even something as simple as scattering my father’s ashes became a challenge. With the city under curfew, we couldn’t find a place to do it.

Before we could even process what had just happened or begin to talk about it, my brother and I got calls from our respective foreign ministries telling us to leave India immediately. Our home countries were shutting down all flights due to the second wave of Covid-19.

We had no choice but to reschedule our flights, vacate the house and leave everything behind as we found it. During all of this, I was still processing everything cognitively, if not emotionally. I hadn’t cried or broken down. I couldn’t sleep or eat.

It was as if my body and mind were operating on autopilot, just trying to get through it all.

When I arrived in Singapore, I was informed I would have a month-long quarantine in a government-sanctioned accommodation. For the next month, I was alone with myself. I felt this perverse sense of satisfaction and peace at not having to go home.

I had daily calls from family and friends. I interacted with everyone, answered questions, joked, and followed the instructions from the staff who left food outside my door three times a day.

I remember lying in bed, staring at the tightly sealed window in front of me for hours, wondering why the hell I wasn’t crying! My head felt foggy like it was wrapped in wool. I could see, hear and understand everything going on around me, yet nothing seemed to affect me. It was as if I was watching my life unfold like a movie, a passive observer in my own story.

During this time, my husband tried repeatedly to break through my emotional numbness. He’d ask me to talk, to share what was on my mind, but I remained detached. I found it exhausting to communicate with him and the kids.

I would find ways to end every call within minutes.

This kind of emotional detachment is a defence mechanism, something often referred to as “being spaced out,” “disconnected,” or “in a dream.” It’s common after traumatic events and is known as peritraumatic dissociation.

Although emotionally numb, I began noticing oddities in my overt behaviours. I found myself falling into an obsessive pattern of organisation. Every morning, I would wake up at the same time, clean my room, make my bed, and eat at a set time, following a rigid routine.

I became compulsive about hygiene and keeping my surroundings spotless. I designated specific days to clean my toilet and wash my clothes. I spoke only when spoken to, and weeks later, I realised I hadn’t uttered a word for entire days.

In all honesty, I found comfort in the isolation. I didn’t miss my family, nor did I feel a strong desire to go home. My hotel room became my refuge, and I dreaded the thought of leaving it behind and stepping back into the world.

A month after my father passed, I was finally released from quarantine and reunited with my family. At first, I remained stoic, going through the motions of daily life – doing the kids’ chores, working, and keeping up with routine tasks.

I finally broke down one random morning while making coffee two weeks after I reached home.

That was when my real grieving process began – the painful, difficult journey of coming to terms with my loss.

But this was just the next stage in a process that has stretched over the years, one that continues to unfold in ways I rarely expect.

Problematic and distressing bereavement reactions, such as CG, are more likely to develop after a traumatic loss. One very interesting explanation I read of the phenomenon described it using an example from medicine.

In medicine, the term ‘complicated’ refers to an added condition that disrupts and worsens the healing process. Grief, in a similar way, is a natural response to loss, but when it becomes ‘complicated’, it’s like a wound getting infected – this added burden intensifies emotional pain and delays healing.

In this sense, bereavement is like an injury, grief is the painful but necessary healing response, and complicated grief is like an infection that interferes with recovery.

It happens when someone’s reaction to the death or its aftermath disrupts the mourning process, making it harder to adapt and heal over time. People struggling with CG may either find comfort in memories of the deceased or have an unhealthy preoccupation with death.

Over time, this can lead to reexperiencing, avoidance and emotional numbing.

Efforts to avoid reminders of the deceased can bring about overwhelming sadness, emotional exhaustion and a sense of being stuck, unable to move on.

Over the years for me, emotional numbing has taken on many forms. It’s like a spectrum, really. One minute, I’m having a full-on meltdown over the thought of a random pet rabbit passing away (don’t ask, it’s a thing), and the next, I’m cracking jokes about death like I’m auditioning for a stand-up comedy gig! My grief had no middle ground.

It’s taken me nearly two years to even begin to enjoy music again. And every time someone plays a slow, emotional song, I immediately blurt out, “Who died?” I’ve said it so often that it’s now a running joke in my house. It’s like my brain hears those sad melodies and expects a funeral to follow!

Grief is often described as a chaotic, non-linear process, and I can attest to that.

My healing hasn’t been a straight line. Some days, I feel energetic and optimistic; other days, I struggle to even get out of bed. I’ve learnt not to force myself to “move on” faster than I am able. Instead, I’ve given myself the space to heal without rushing the process.

One of the most powerful tools I’ve gained is what I call “one day at a time” thinking. It’s become my lifeline, both in my personal life and my practice. When triggered, my anxious thoughts tend to spiral uncontrollably. I can now recognise the patterns early and shift my focus to small, manageable steps. I rely heavily on my family and friends – especially on the tougher days.

My journey isn’t over. My struggle continues, but it doesn’t define me anymore. I’ve learned to closely observe my mind and body and give it the respect it deserves. I treat myself more kindly now. I always show up for myself. I’m my biggest critic – but also my biggest champion.