This reflection came to me as I was quietly remembering my father. Memories moved through me like waves – some soft, some aching, some warm. And as I sat with him in my heart, I noticed how many different parts of me still carried their own relationship to him, though much quieter now – six years after his passing.

One part remembered tenderness. Another remembered longing. Another carried deep disappointment. Another simply missed him.

And I could feel how each part held its own story, its own unfinished emotions, its own way of seeing him.

There was the part of me that wished she had seen more of his courage than his fear. More of his patience than his anger. More of his brilliance than his disappointments with life.

For most of my time with him, those activated parts became the lens through which I saw him.

But grief has a strange and sacred way of softening the edges of our defenses. Time quiets the noise. The nervous system loosens its grip around old survival stories. And slowly, something deeper begins to emerge.

The whole person. 🤍

Not just the ways they wounded us. Not just the ways they fell short. But their humanity. Their struggles. Their tenderness. The invisible pain they also carried. The ways they tried to love with the tools they had.

And somehow, being able to see my father more fully has made the love I feel for him even more expansive.

It made me realize how true this is for all of us.

At funerals, in eulogies, in stories shared years later over coffee, we suddenly remember someone’s essence – their laugh, their warmth, the meals they cooked, the way they loved us in imperfect but sincere ways.

But in daily life, we often experience people through our activated parts instead.

The part annoyed they didn’t wash the dishes. The part hurt they didn’t call back. The part overwhelmed by their chaos. The part resentful for carrying too much. The part longing to feel chosen, appreciated, understood.

And those parts can become so loud that we stop seeing the person clearly. We see them through hurt, exhaustion, fear, unmet needs.

This is one of the deepest truths of parts work and the nervous system: we rarely relate to others from complete presence. We relate through what is being activated within us.

A triggered part is not the whole truth. It is a temporary lens.

And maybe healing is not about silencing these parts, but learning to sit beside them with curiosity.

“Ah… there is a hurt part here.” “There is an exhausted part.” “A fearful part.” “A resentful part.”

Not pushing them away. Not letting them define the entire story either.

Just listening.

Because when we do, something softens.

We stop turning temporary activations into permanent truths about people.

We begin holding a fuller picture: that someone can trigger us and still love us. That relationships can be imperfect and still meaningful. That a person can disappoint us deeply and still have brought beauty into our lives.

And perhaps this is one of grief’s quietest teachings:

To see people with the heart while they are still here. To gently notice which activated part we may be seeing them through in any given moment. To remember that our triggers are not always the full truth of who someone is. And to soften enough to hold a larger, more compassionate picture of the people in our lives. ❤