'I was blindsided by the level of grief.' What no one tells you about losing your grandparent.

When my nan passed away, I heard the same words of comfort quite a lot.  

"At least she lived a long life," people often said in a bid to comfort me.

I completely understood the sentiment. She was 87, so in the grand scheme of things, that is a long life compared to what some people get. And she had done some incredible things in those years.

Watch: 5 things about grief no one really tells you. Story continues below.

After surviving three strokes in her 30s and raising two children alone after her divorce, my nanna Olive spent more than 30 years volunteering at her church, then at her retirement village looking after people she called "the oldies", despite the fact most of them were younger than her. 

As part of her volunteer work, she often sat with people who had no family in the last moments of their life so they weren't alone.

But when it came to her last moments, I felt completely blindsided.

I know that might sound silly, but even when your grandparent is elderly, slower and more fragile than they once were, they somehow feel indestructible. 

She still had so much to live for and I'd given birth to her first great-grandchild — who I named after her — just six months earlier.

But in the time since, I've realised that losing a grandparent when you're an adult takes on a different depth of loss than it does when you're a child. Here's what I've learnt:

People will minimise the loss and it will hurt. 

Let me be clear: I know this is absolutely not intentional.

I did the exact same thing to pretty much every person I know who lost an elderly relative before me, saying things like, "She had 80 amazing years" or "At least he lived a long life."

After all, it is the natural order of things, so it's much less of a shock than when someone younger dies unexpectedly. In a way, you assume that someone will be able to move on quicker and accept the loss as part of the circle of life.

But when my nan passed, I couldn't shake the feeling that she'd been robbed of at least a few more good years.

I guess it's because the sentiment that it was someone's "time to go" doesn't really account for the memories you still expected to make with them.

I wanted her there for my baby's first Christmas. 

I wanted to pop around for afternoon tea when I was feeling lonely on maternity leave. 

I wanted her to hold my hand, in the way only my nan could, and tell me everything would be alright. 

It's never enough time.

I heard some profound insight into grief from a Hollywood actor (of all people!) as I was still grappling with mine. 

It was a resurfaced video of Andrew Garfield when he appeared on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert back in 2021. The Amazing Spider-Man star got overwhelmed with emotion as he spoke about his mum, Lyn, who died of pancreatic cancer in 2019.

"I love talking about [her], by the way, so if I cry, it's… only a beautiful thing," he said.

"This is all the unexpressed love. The grief will remain with us until we pass because we never get enough time with each other, right? No matter if someone lives until 60, 15, or 99.

"So I hope this grief stays with me because it's all the unexpressed love that I didn't get to tell her. And I told her every day!"

And that's the perfect way to think of it. It doesn't matter if your loved one was young or old, you'll still always want more time with them.

And what I wouldn't give to have one more cup of tea and buttered pikelet with my nan.

Your grief is still valid.

Still experiencing deep grief for someone who passed nearly three years ago is a complex feeling when I look around and see some of the suffering going on in the world. Particularly in my job as a writer, I hear of shocking family tragedies and losses daily. So sometimes I do find myself thinking I need to just suck it up.

It feels irrational that, three years on, I still burst into tears when I look at her handwritten letter on my fridge. That I still pull her old tea towels out of my linen press and give them an extra big whiff just to soak up the last thing that still smells like her. That I still listen to old voicemails she left me, always starting with the words "Hello love, it's only me..."

But I've come to learn that any loss is still a loss. Regardless of what other people are going through, you're allowed to mourn your loved one however you like.

Everyone's grief is unique to the relationship you had with the person and there can't really be a finite timeline on it.

The constant in your life has to shift.

For the first 33 years of my life, my nan was one constant presence.

While my parents both worked full-time, she often cared for me and my younger brother. She seemed bulletproof to us.But when that steady relationship suddenly disappears, you do have to go through a period of readjustment.

I've lost count of the number of times I've gone to call her on the phone when I jump in the car (because it's what I always used to do), or wanted to ask her a question I'll now never know the answer to.

But, like anything, it takes time to adjust to the new normal in your family. And the empty seat at the end of the table. 

What I do know is I am grateful to have had her in my life for 33 years.

And that will have to be enough.

Feature Image: Supplied.