Imposter Syndrome in Grief: “I Felt Like a Fraud in Mourning My Sister’s Death.”
“I know you were estranged and all.”
Those words stuck with me, chipping away at my perceived right to grieve my sister’s death. “You don’t know shit,” I wanted to hurl back. That sentence wasn’t comfort; it was a disclaimer — proof that my loss was up for debate. As if distance had made me immune to the pain of her death.
Comments like this came from every direction. Each one made me question what I was feeling, if I was feeling enough, or if I even had the right to grieve. I felt like a grief imposter, a fraud. Later, I learned there’s a name for what I was experiencing.
Imposter syndrome in grief is defined as, “The persistent inability to believe that one’s grief is valid or legitimately experienced as a result of one’s own thoughts or feelings.”
And once I started noticing it, I saw it everywhere. One morning, while I was jogging, my father told my husband how “well I was handling it.” Shame hit hard. I wasn’t performing grief the way people expected. Was I?
In the weeks after her death, people often led their condolences with caveats — “I knew you weren’t close,” or “I know you grew apart.” Even when they didn’t say it outright, their tone carried the same message: your loss doesn’t count as much.
It didn’t stop there. Condolences felt conditional, like they came with fine print. People wrapped sympathy in disclaimers: “I knew you weren’t close,” “You’d been estranged,” their statements softening my loss to ease their own discomfort. I wanted to say, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
In my vulnerability, shame, and regret tangled together. Shame for letting our relationship deteriorate. Regret for not trying harder. Their words made me feel like a fraud in my grief.
As if that weren’t complicated enough, I felt embarrassed for not appearing more distraught — for not crying in public, for functioning normally at all. Running, baking, smiling, laughing — any act of normalcy felt suspect, like evidence against my grief’s legitimacy.
Years before her death, my sister had already disappeared from my life abruptly. She spent years in jail, addicted, unreachable. She’d have a phone for a few weeks, then vanish again. Her choices broke my trust and my heart.
I was angry, in denial, and confused. I refused to visit her in jail, not necessarily intentionally, but I couldn’t bring myself to come to terms with who she had become. Even still, she was my sister, and I always loved her and thought about her.
When she was out of jail and reachable, we texted often and occasionally spoke on the phone. Through addiction, stints in jail, and the new life she embraced, I felt a distance that wasn’t there before. I quietly and continually mourned the sister I had once had. The one who felt like a reflection of who I was.
Yet underneath it all, we shared a deep bond, common interests, and the ability to banter and connect in ways only sisters can.
When I found out she’d died, grief hit like a tidal wave. I lay in bed, writhing and screaming. For a few minutes, the pain felt pure, honest — like my body was proving I loved her.
Most people didn’t see that I’d been grieving her for years. When she vanished into addiction and crime, I began the slow grieving process of someone still alive.
Anticipatory grief helped me to handle her death because I had already processed many of the complex emotions of loss. I realized that my ability to remain emotionally even-keeled had less to do with apathy and more to do with the fact that I had already grieved her over and over again.
As I started to separate regret from shame, I realized people’s caveats weren’t really about me. They just wanted to avoid the discomfort of grief itself.
Grief doesn’t need witnesses. It doesn’t need approval. It isn’t reserved for the deserving.
I think about my sister every day. I always have.
Some days, I still feel like an imposter. I wonder if I’m sad enough, crying enough, missing her enough.
I carry my grief quietly. It’s not loud or visible. It’s laced with shame, guilt, anger, and love. Some days it’s heavy; other days it remains in a box, high up on a shelf. I still catch myself looking in the mirror, seeing a glimpse of my sister’s eyes or smile. Moments like that, I miss the hell out of her.
Most days, I imagine what I’d say if I saw her again. I’d hug her, tell her I’m sorry, beg her to stay. Maybe that imposter feeling is just the ache of an apology I never got to give. I still want to hear her say, “It’s okay. I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault.”
For now, I know my grief is real. It’s mine. That’s enough.
