Behind the Veil

Opening to the hidden grief that can emerge during major life events.

As a former wedding planner, you might think I’d be uniquely prepared for the process of planning my own wedding. But you’d be wrong. Nothing has prepared me for the emotional complexity of it all. It’s not just the time, money, and energy that goes into it—although those things are immense. What no one talks about is the mixed emotions. For me, at least, the entire process has been covered by a veil of grief.

Yeah, grief–not something you normally associate with getting married. But it’s there. Constantly, in fact. Lingering around the edges of every to-do list, and every “Congratulations!” text. It’s a strange thing to plan a day of joy while feeling the quiet pull of what—and who—isn’t there.

I had a particularly intense (and totally unexpected) moment with this while browsing Pinterest for dresses and veils one day. Envisioning myself all dressed up, I had a sudden, strange moment of insight about the symbolism of the veil—and the hidden emotions I’ve been carrying.

Did you know that bridal veils were originally worn to ward off evil spirits?  (As I later learned by asking ChatGPT.) The ancient Romans believed that spirits would prey on brides as they walked down the aisle, so the veil was meant to protect the bride by concealing her identity. And in the Christian faith, of course, the veil was worn as a symbol of modesty and purity. In both cases, the veil was worn to cover up or conceal something in order to protect it. 

For me, the veil represents something else. It feels like a way of acknowledging that behind the smiles, the dresses, and the celebration, there’s a hidden grief. Planning this wedding, I’ve often felt like I’m carrying my grief with me—covered up, barely visible, yet close to my heart.

But I don’t want to hide my grief, which is why I am sharing it all with you–so thank you for holding this space for me. 

The hidden layers of grief

Beneath the joy of getting engaged to the man I love and planning a wedding, there are layers of grief I can’t fully explain. Most obvious, though, is the grief I feel knowing that my mother won’t be there. I won’t see her sitting in the front row or dance with her during the reception. There’s grief in the fact that she never got to meet my husband-to-be and get to know him. Even though I know she’ll be there in spirit, I burst into tears every time I think about it (and then start laughing at the absurdity of my own uncontrollable sobs–seriously).

But it’s not just my mother. There’s also the quiet, ambiguous grief for friendships that have faded—friends I once thought would stand beside me on my big day but, for various reasons, won’t be there. By your 30s, it’s surprising how easily people drift apart, but priorities shift, and life happens—someone moves to a different state or has kids years before everyone else, you stop drinking, and they don’t. Sometimes, it’s a fight or just a slow drifting you didn’t notice until it was done–I know people who had bridesmaids they no longer talk to. Whatever the reason, we rarely grieve these friendships, even though they shaped us. And then there are the dear friends who won’t be there because they’re starting new chapters of their own—including one who is expecting to give birth right around the time of my wedding and can’t travel to be there. 

This is just one of the uniquely strange things about getting married later in life. I’m 33, which isn’t old, I know, but it’s not the mid-to-late twenties either, when weddings felt like a guaranteed gathering of everyone you hold dear. Now, wedding planning feels like an exercise in wondering: Will my aunt or grandfather still be alive? Will they be able to make it? Just recently, I had to remove a guest from the list because they unexpectedly died.

In many ways, weddings are markers of the passage of time, drawing attention to impermanence in a way that's hard to ignore. Whether it’s thinking about family members who might not live long enough to attend or the friends whose lives have taken them in different directions, there's a bittersweet awareness that life moves forward—whether we are ready for it or not. 

Then there is the more nebulous grief of the life I thought I’d have by now, the imagined future of my younger self that never came to be. Back then, I imagined that by 30, I’d be married, own a house, and have some high-flying career that would make me feel like I had “arrived.” Instead, I’m in a completely different place—taking a chance on myself, building a business, and exploring my calling as a death doula. I’ll be 34 when I get married, and probably 35 by the time I have a baby—if I’m lucky. Don’t get me wrong, I love my life, but there’s a particular kind of grief that comes when your life doesn’t follow the script you once thought was written for you. At the same time, I wouldn’t want my life to be anything other than what it is right now. There’s a freedom in embracing the unexpected, in knowing that the life unfolding is one I’m actively choosing, rather than the one I once assumed I’d have.

I think most of you know what I’m talking about. We have this idea of what our lives “should” look like by a certain age, and when reality doesn’t match that, or you have to let go of a long-held dream, it’s easy to feel like you’ve missed a step. But the truth is, it’s not about missing anything—it’s about letting go of those old expectations to make room for the life you do have, and finding joy in that.

This is part of the quiet wisdom of getting older: You realize that life is rarely the tidy, predictable story and the linear upward trajectory you thought it would be. It’s more like a rollercoaster, or a game of chutes and ladders. You don’t just lose independence when you marry, you gain partnership. You don’t just grieve the life you thought you’d have, you embrace new opportunities that surprise and delight you. It’s all part of the ebb and flow of life. Grief and joy, loss and growth—the truth is that you can’t have one without the other–they are inextricably intertwined. 

Lifting the veil 

When I think about the original purpose of the veil—protecting the bride from harm—it strikes me how much we hide behind veils of our own making to protect ourselves from the emotions that make us feel vulnerable. Like the bride, we often wear invisible veils to protect ourselves from being fully seen—especially when it comes to grief. We hide our sadness, our vulnerabilities, and our imperfections, thinking it will protect us. But what if, instead of hiding behind these veils, we allowed them to reveal the complexity of our emotions? It reminds me of the painting The Lovers by René Magritte, where two figures kiss through a veil of cloth. What should be an intimate, loving moment is instead made distant and strange by the barrier between them. The veil represents the ways we keep parts of ourselves hidden, even in moments of love, and how this fear of vulnerability can distance us from those we care about most.

But in many spiritual traditions, the veil also refers to the barrier between the living and the dead, a thin boundary separating our world from the realm of the ancestors. It’s believed that through this veil, we can reach across and connect with those who came before us. In this sense, the veil isn’t just a cover—it’s a gateway. The veil has become a reminder to me that even as we experience loss, we can reach through our pain and find meaning in what’s beyond it. The grief we feel is not a barrier—it’s a bridge to a deeper understanding of love, of life, and of those who came before us.

In every moment of joy, there is often a quiet shadow of grief. So, I ask: have you ever felt grief in a moment of joy? What absences—of people, dreams, or former selves—have accompanied you, even in your most celebratory moments?

— Maura