All change is loss.
And every loss invites grief.

That grief tends to move in one of two directions: it either turns inward—becoming anxiety, depression, or shame—or it turns outward, lashing out at others in anger or blame.

Take teenagers going through puberty. They’re grieving the loss of childhood—its safety, simplicity, and sense of identity. But they don’t have language for that grief. So it gets misdirected: into rebellion against parents or internalized self-loathing.

This isn’t just about adolescence. All of us do it:

• A teenager heading to college picks fights with parents all summer. It looks like defiance, but beneath the surface is grief—grieving the end of a season, the safety of home, the comfort of familiarity.
• A spouse lashes out in anger after a long day at the office loss. What seems like irritability may be grief over loss agency, energy or purpose.
• A new dad disengages—not because he doesn’t love his child, but because he’s silently grieving the loss of freedom, changes in his marital relationship and uncertainty of self.
• A longtime church member criticizes the music—not because it’s bad, but because it reminds them that church no longer feels like it once did.
• An aging adult becomes bitter or critical—not because others have failed them, but because they’re grieving the loss of independence or relevance.

In each case, grief—unnamed and unprocessed—pushes away the very people we’re most afraid to lose.

So what do we do?

We start by naming it.
“Lord, I am sad that…”
Grief needs a voice. And a listening ear.

The good news is this: we worship a Savior who is familiar with grief. Isaiah 53:4 says, “Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.”

Jesus not only carried our sin to the cross, but also our sorrows. We can bring our grief to him—every loss, every change, every ache because His love for us is the one thing that will never change.