November 2025

Navigating Unexpected Grief:

Giving Space to Our Parts in Moments of Sorrow

Have you ever felt like you’ve “handled” your grief, only to have it crash over you like an unexpected wave? In the world of Internal Family Systems (IFS), we know that our parts don’t always follow a tidy timeline. They can emerge unbidden, carrying burdens we’ve tried to set aside, often to prioritize others or simply to keep moving forward. Today, I want to share a personal experience where one of my parts blindsided me with raw agony—and how inviting Self- energy into that space allowed for deeper healing. My hope is that this resonates with you and encourages you to hold compassionate space for your own parts when they surface unexpectedly.

The Moment Turns into Agony

Recently, I attended a memorial Mass marking the approaching anniversary of a dear friend’s passing—a priest I once worked closely with. Going in, my manager parts were in full —that I’d processed it all a year ago when he died suddenly by suicide. My protector parts had done their job, shifting attention outward to support others, burying any lingering sorrow under layers of busyness and concern for the flock he left behind. I’d even stepped up and hosted a virtual grief group, and in the weeks leading up to the anniversary I kept checking in with the people closest to him.

But then, during the homily, Fr. Aaron (his close friend) spoke of how new priests receive a manila envelope with their first assignment… and tucked beneath it, a form for funeral planning. In that instant, a young, exiled part of me erupted from the shadows, screaming in pure agony. She wasn’t grieving a pastor or a boss—she was mourning a friend. This part held memories of our shared “dark” humor, the kind that only those who’ve brushed against death can truly appreciate. For years I’d teased him about not filling out that very funeral form, despite his perfectionist nature. He’d laugh it off, saying, “Just put me in a box and have a Mass—be done with it.” He despised pomp and attention, and I can only imagine he’d be rolling his eyes at how his story went viral online after his death, especially since he playfully mocked social media as “YouTwitFace.”

This part had been quietly carrying the weight of that friendship’s loss, feeling utterly alone. While my Self had grieved the professional and spiritual roles—the boss who’d stepped in during turbulent times for our parish, the priest who’d anointed me in the ER and stayed to keep me company when my husband had to be home with the kids—this exiled part had been sidelined. “Everyone else needs us more,” my manager parts insisted, pushing her aside. But in that moment she demanded to be seen, shaking with grief that felt as fresh as the day it happened. She kept pushing forward all weekend until I finally acknowledged her and stopped pushing her away.

Viewing Through an IFS Lens: Acknowledging the Complexity of Parts

Looking back through an IFS perspective, it’s clear why this hit so hard. Grief isn’t linear; it’s a constellation of parts, each holding different facets of the loss. There were angry parts grappling with the nature of his suicide—an acute mental health crisis that left us all reeling. Protector parts shielded me from the full brunt by focusing on his humanity: the nerdy friend with an awkward charm, who let kids climb on him like a jungle gym, who dropped everything for hospital visits, who preached hope amid chaos like the weekend after Roe v. Wade was overturned. And then there were the burdened parts carrying sorrow for the darkness he must have endured, the heavy cross of priesthood— answering for his flock, making impossible decisions, facing vocal disapproval— all while being expected to be superhuman.

In IFS, we honor that no part is “bad”; they’re all trying to protect or preserve something vital. My exiled part, the one who lost her friend, had been burdened with isolation, feeling like her grief was invalid compared to others’. I’d tried to shove her straight to the Cross—“If I offer it up, it’s handled, right?” Not so much. What she truly needed was for my Self to sit with her—to witness her pain without rushing to fix it, to let her know she wasn’t alone in that sorrow, and allow Christ to come into that space with us to then hold that burden. Blending spiritual surrender with IFS compassion creates a powerful container: letting Him sit with that part too, holding us both in gentle presence. This isn’t just my story—it’s a reminder of how all of our systems work. Priests, like the rest of us, carry their own parts: the burdens of responsibility, the exiles of unspoken struggles. In communities where mental health and faith intersect, IFS gives us a way to navigate these realities without shame.

An Invitation: Making Space for Your Parts

If this stirs something in you, I invite you to pause and check in with your own system. What parts might be lurking, waiting for an unexpected trigger—a song, a memory, a casual mention—to burst forth? When those moments hit like a truck, try this:

1. Notice and Name

Gently acknowledge the part. “I see you, the one carrying this agony. What’s here for you right now?”

2. Create Space

Invite your Self to sit with it, without agenda. No need to “fix” or offer it up immediately—just witness. If faith is part of your journey, imagine inviting divine presence into that space too, letting it hold you both.

3. Unburden

Slowly Over time, ask what this part needs. Maybe it’s to share a story, cry without judgment, or connect with supportive others. Healing happens in relationship—with Self, with community, with the sacred.

4. Extend Compassion

Outward As we tend to our own parts, we become better at supporting others’. Pray for those in heavy roles, like priests or caregivers, whose parts carry unseen loads. And if a part feels overwhelmed, reach out—to a friend, an IFS practitioner, or a counselor. You are not alone.

Grief parts don’t vanish; they transform when given space. In sharing this, I’m honoring my own—and hoping it encourages you to do the same for yours.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Christina Coveyou

In memory of Rev. Dennis Conway January 8th 1991- November 26th 2024