When Loss Reshapes Identity: A Story of Sibling Grief

'Loss reshapes identity,' a lesson grief taught me. Read the story, 'Evolving Grief' by Judy Lipson, a powerful story of sibling loss and learning to live with grief.

Feb 17, 2026

Welcome to the Grief Stories community! I hope you find this to be a welcoming place where you’ll be able to share experiences, get things off your chest, support one another, ask questions, and chat to people who truly ‘get it’. I invite you to read and share stories of hope and healing; giving a voice to loss and grief. This is a safe place helping us to feel less alone on our journey and providing comfort in hard times.

As I write my upcoming book about invisible losses and unrecognised grief, one theme keeps rising to the surface: loss doesn’t just break our hearts - it reshapes our identity. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes all at once.

Loss doesn’t just break our hearts - it reshapes our identity.

When I look back over my life, I can see that it didn’t unfold in neat chapters or allow space to breathe before something else was taken away. The brother I never met.
The loss of my parents. The accident. Each loss changed not only my circumstances - but who I understood myself to be.

There have been mornings I wished I could return to the life before. But life doesn’t rewind. Beneath the grief, a question lingered: If I’m no longer who I was, then who am I now?

Loss hands us labels we never asked for - orphan, trauma survivor, chronic pain patient. Labels describe experiences, but over time they can begin to feel like identities. And there is no ceremony welcoming you into this new version of yourself. Just an unfamiliar space.

Perhaps this is why grief can feel like living between two worlds - the life before and the life after.

Grief can feel like living between two worlds - the life before and the life after.

If you’ve ever questioned your identity after loss, you are not alone, and today, I’m honoured to share Judy’s story.

In today’s Grief Stories, Judy Lipson bravely shares about sibling loss - the deaths of her sisters, Jane and Margie - and the decades of delayed grief that followed. She became the strong one, the caretaker, the steady presence for everyone else. But grief has a habit of waiting.

Judy is the author of Celebration of Sisters: It Is Never Too Late To Grieve, a story of love, grief, and moving forward, even years after the loss.

I’m deeply grateful to Judy for her courage and vulnerability. Her journey reminds us that sibling loss is often overshadowed, that delayed grief is still grief, and that healing is rarely linear. This is a story about identity after loss. About self-forgiveness and carrying love forward.

If you’ve ever wondered who you are now that someone who defined you is gone, Judy’s words may feel achingly familiar.

And if they do, I’d love to hear what resonates with you.

‘Evolving Grief’ by Judy Lipson

Grief Story #022

There is no recipe for grief.

Many of us love home-baked chocolate chip cookies and follow the recipe on the back of the Nestlé Toll House package. Grief is not simple; one recipe does not fit all.

In 1981, a tragic automobile accident took the life of twenty-two-year-old Jane, the younger sister whom I adored. Nine years later, I experienced the loss of another sister, Margie, the eldest of the three Lipson sisters whom I idolized at age thirty-five after a twenty-year battle with anorexia/bulimia. The secure identity I recognized as the middle, squashed between two sisters, disappeared.

So, I thought for decades.

Jane’s death came as a total shock when I was twenty-five, on top of the world, living and working in New York City. When I answered the phone, my world changed in a flash, and the family I once had disappeared.

Margie’s death, although not unexpectedly, still came as a shock. Both are devastating. I suppressed the grief for thirty years, unable to comprehend the reality of the losses, the concept of grief, or the trauma of having a sister with a mental illness for twenty years.

In retrospect, I faced grief, though the repercussions were unknown. I became a caretaker and cheerleader. I took care of my parents, raised two daughters as a single mother, and attempted to bring some sunshine to my parents after the loss of two children.

The pain of losing a sibling is overshadowed.

Who am I? When Jane died, was I the youngest? When Margie died, was I an only child? I not only lost my sisters, but I also lost myself, my parents. For thirty years, I power walked on a treadmill of life, not stopping. The many dates approached with weeks of anxiety; the anniversaries, the Jewish calendar reminders, and the birthdays. I sensed a piece of me was incomplete.

With the death of my father, another devastating loss forced me to grieve for Margie and Jane. With intense therapy, brick by brick, I allowed the wall I built to tumble and opened myself to suppressed feelings of grief. Like a child learning to walk, sit up, stand up, crawl, one step, and multiple steps, I learned how to recognize emotions that were bottled up. Delving into grief, understanding, and navigating decades of behavior was difficult. Realigning my thoughts and emotions, forgiving myself for delaying grief work, and finding time for renewal.

How do I forgive myself for not mourning Margie and Jane earlier? How do I live with the thought that the last time I saw them was to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday? Why didn’t I spend more time with them? Why didn’t I do more to be a better sister to Margie throughout her challenging mental illness? The hamster wheel keeps turning. The heart and mind were not in sync.

Much as an athlete must train their mind and body, I tried to apply the principles of skating training to the grieving process. Part of the therapy called for restoration, taking time for me. A new concept I had to program into my brain. Skating provided me with an outlet, a lifeline, meditation, and peace.

Much as an athlete must train their mind and body, I tried to apply the principles of skating training to the grieving process.

Ice skating provided the chord that brought me full circle back to Margie and Jane. As young girls, we skated together and provided the happiest memories that I can recall. To channel the immense grief in November on their birthdays and the anniversary of Jane’s passing, I honored Margie and Jane with an annual ice-skating fundraiser to benefit Massachusetts General Hospital. I can hear my sisters cackling about the dress, or wearing the wrong color lipstick, but most of all, I sense their presence on my shoulders as I glide across the slick ice and the breeze blows through my hair.

The hardest question asked of me was, “How many siblings do you have?” Unable to breathe, my heart raced, stumbling over how to respond. The answer changed over time. I replied, “It’s just me.” Today I answer, “I am the middle of three who sadly lost both her sisters.” Margie and Jane are my past, present, and future.

Today my grief journey is evolving and will continue to do so. As an introvert, writing became a tool to express feelings and provide clarity and understanding of Judy as a person, warts and all. I never comprehended the impact of grief on my life. I hope grief does not define me; it is forever a part of me.

My memoir helped me share Margie and Jane and ignite some memories I feared lost. If another individual found solace in their sorrow, held onto hope, or laughed, I was thankful. Publishing the book led me to immerse myself in grief, sharing my experiences on podcasts, speaking, and attending grief conferences.

The birth of my three grandchildren in the past five years brought me immense joy, smiles, and laughter. I felt layers of emotions wishing my sisters were present to share the experiences with me. The common denominator is love. I watch my two daughters as sisters, the little cousins together, and my heart is a ping-pong, bursting with joy, and an ache of missing Margie and Jane. The legacies of Margie and Jane live on in Benji, Jake, and Madelyn, and in spirit. I can tell Margie and Jane are beaming.

Enjoy your chocolate chip cookies and change the recipe by mixing up the chips or adding M&M’s. The same is true for your grief. I tried many things–groups, reading, squashing my thoughts, writing, conferences. I hope that every individual who is grieving discovers what works for you, finds time to take care of you, and, as someone said to me, “I did the best I could at that time.”

Grief Story by Judy Lipson

Friend, have you ever felt that grief reshaped your identity? Who were you before the loss - and who are you now? How do you honour the person you lost in your everyday life? What has helped you process your grief — movement, writing, therapy, faith, community, creativity?

Grief Stories by Katy Parker from Journeyofsmiley

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