When we hear the word grief, we often think of death. A funeral, a eulogy, a black suit. We imagine a clear loss, a final goodbye, something gone that can never return.

But grief wears many forms.

It can come when a dream dissolves. When a plan falls apart. When a version of life you hoped for, worked toward, or quietly counted on… simply doesn’t happen.

This is the grief of the life that could have been. And for many young people, it’s one of the most invisible, unspoken forms of loss.

It shows up when someone doesn’t get into the school they wanted. When a friendship they thought would last forever fades without warning. When a body changes, a family breaks, or the world itself shifts so dramatically that the future no longer looks like it used to.

It’s not always dramatic. It’s not always visible. But it hurts.

And because it doesn’t have a ritual or a clear name, it often goes unnoticed—even by the person feeling it.

In the One Life Many Endings project, we invite young people to acknowledge this quiet grief. To honour the losses that don’t come with condolences, but still shape our sense of self and possibility.

One participant shared, “I thought I’d be studying abroad this year. I had imagined the city, the people, the whole life. And then it was cancelled. Everyone told me, ‘It’s not a big deal, you’ll go later.’ But it was a big deal to me. I felt like I lost a part of myself that only existed in that dream.”

Another talked about the end of a version of themselves: “When I realised I couldn’t pursue music seriously, something broke inside. It wasn’t just a change of plans—it felt like the end of a story I’d told myself for years.”

This kind of grief doesn’t always get permission. People say: “It’s not that bad,” “You can try again,” “Others have it worse.” And while these things may be true, they miss the point.

Grief is not a competition. It’s a recognition. Of attachment. Of change. Of meaning.

When we lose something we cared about—whether it was real or imagined, big or small—it deserves space. To name it. To feel it. To say: this mattered to me.

This is especially important for young people, who are often told to be resilient, flexible, adaptable. And yes, those are useful traits. But resilience doesn’t mean numbing out. True resilience starts with acknowledging pain—not denying it.

Because if we don’t grieve what could have been, we carry it quietly. It shows up as bitterness. As self-doubt. As a feeling that something is missing, without knowing what.

By making space for this grief, we create a foundation for healing. We allow new dreams to emerge, not as replacements, but as responses. As new stories shaped by reflection, not suppression.

So how do we support young people through this kind of grief?

We start by naming it. “It’s okay to mourn the life you imagined.” “It makes sense that this hurts.” “You’re allowed to feel lost, even if nothing dramatic happened.”

We listen without fixing. We offer creative outlets—journals, art, movement, music—that let feelings move through, rather than get stuck. We encourage rituals of release: writing a letter to the dream that didn’t come true, sharing it in a circle, or simply saying goodbye in private.

And we remind them: just because something didn’t happen doesn’t mean it was meaningless. The hope, the vision, the emotion—it all shaped who they are. That version of life may be gone, but it leaves traces. Strength. Insight. A new kind of readiness.

Grief doesn’t just close doors. It deepens us. It teaches us what we long for, what we value, and what we still have to give.

The life that could have been is not a waste. It’s a chapter. One that deserves to be read, felt, and gently turned.

Only then can we face the next page with honest eyes—not pretending we’ve moved on, but knowing we’ve moved through.