
Introduction
I came to punk late and sideways, the way most outsiders do, not through the right record shops or the right postcodes, but through a person and a feeling. The person was my late husband. He chose death with dignity last year after 30 years of marriage.
When we met, I had two cassette tapes, Billy Joel and the Counting Crows, and he was appalled. This was a guy who grew up in the Valley in LA and spent a lot of his life going to shows. Let’s just say that when he played Sun Ra and then John Cage’s 4′33″ on our first date, I was unsure. A month later, we were engaged.
Music was a central part of our life together, and he helped me explore and build my own discography, including my punk collection, deliberately, almost as if he knew how much I’d need it someday.
Last year, as the world started to burn a little hotter and faster, and as my husband chose to die, I found myself building all-women playlists that combined Aretha, L7, and Amyl and the Sniffers, screaming and crying out the songs while hiding in my outside studio. After he died, I didn’t have to hide anymore, so our house became my mosh pit.
In the nine months since he passed, I’ve read all of the books on grief, and I’ve got to say: let it go. The feeling that something had happened to me, and the music being recommended, the stuff that was supposed to help, was all wrong. Too soft. Too resolved. Too busy telling me it was going to be okay.
I didn’t want okay. I wanted something that understood that it was not okay. That it was, in fact, completely horrible.
You know what got me to now? Joan Didion, Nora Ephron, and singing particularly angry and naughty songs out loud, especially “Ex-Boyfriend Beat” by Skinned Teen, “If I Had a Dick” by So Good, “Stiletto Heels” by High Tension, and “Switchblade” by LP.
So, having gotten here to this moment, here’s what I’ve worked out, still knee-deep in loss, about how punk handles grief. Not the aesthetic of it. Not the patches and the hair. The actual bones-and-guts philosophy of moving through the worst thing.
Six parts. All of them messy. None of them fixed.
I. Rage Before Resignation
The first thing grief culture tries to sell you is acceptance. There are stages, apparently. A diagram. As if losing someone is a project you can manage, with milestones and deliverables and a tidy sign-off at the end.
The five stages thing wasn’t even meant to work like that. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross was writing about people who were dying themselves, not the ones they left behind, but it got copied and pasted into the popular imagination anyway. Now, everyone with a concerned face asks, “Have you reached acceptance yet?”
No. I have not reached acceptance. I am in the cereal aisle, losing my mind. Thank you for asking.
Punk doesn’t start from acceptance. Punk starts with, “This is wrong, and I am furious about it.” The whole tradition, from The Clash to Bikini Kill to every chaotic three-minute blast these women are making right now, is built on the premise that anger is a legitimate response to a world that keeps doing shit it shouldn’t.
All I ever wanted was to walk by the park
All I ever wanted was to walk by the river, see the stars
Please, stop fucking me up.
— Amyl and the Sniffers
That. That energy.
Grief doesn’t begin with peace. It begins with, “How dare this have happened?” You are allowed, in fact, supposed to stay there until you’re ready to move. Not because someone else needs you to, but because you need you to.
II. Make Something Ugly and Honest
The first punk records were not good. Technically. They were recorded in bad rooms with bad gear by people who had been playing for eighteen months. They were perfect because of it, not despite it. The gap between the feeling and the sound was basically zero.
Grief, when you try to get it out, resists prettiness. It comes out wrong. You’ll write a sentence, and it won’t be the sentence. You’ll try to describe what it felt like, and you’ll get something lumpy and embarrassing that doesn’t do it justice, and you’ll want to scrap it.
Don’t scrap it.
Most music I listen to on bad days is chaotic and brilliant, and it absolutely doesn’t care if you find it “a lot”. There’s something about that refusal to smooth things over that maps directly onto grief.
The mess is the message. The mess is the most honest thing you can offer.
Shut up
Shut up
Shut up
Don’t look down on me!
— Otoboke Beaver
Make the bad poem. Record the terrible voice memo at 3 a.m. Start the zine you have no idea how to finish. Write in your notes app in the car park before you’re ready to go back inside.
None of it needs to be good. It needs to be out of your body and into the world, where you can look at it and say, “There it is.”
You don’t need craft. You need honesty. Turns out those aren’t the same.
III. Reject the Timeline
Society gives you roughly three months before people stop asking. Six months before your family starts suggesting therapy in the careful voice that actually may mean, “Your sadness is making us uncomfortable and we’d like it to stop now, please.” A year passes by, and you get “closure”. You get “what they would have wanted”. You get “moving on”, as if grief is a flat you can vacate when the lease runs up.
I’m questioning the validity of it all.
Punk understands the things that come back. The things that ambush you. The things that live in your body longer than anyone told you they would.
It’s been a while
Since I’ve held
You tight
It’s harder in the night time
The city is a fright to me
Tread carefully
— Big Joanie
Dig me out, dig me in
Out of this mess, baby, out of my head
— Sleater-Kinney
Grief is not linear. You can be absolutely fine, and then a smell, a song, a specific quality of afternoon light in October will put you back in the worst week of your life as fast as blinking.
That is not a setback. That is what it is.
You don’t owe anyone a recovered self. Take the year. Take ten years. Take the moment in the cereal aisle when it comes for you in year fifteen.
You’re not behind. There’s no ahead.
IV. Community over Isolation
There’s a myth that punk is fundamentally solitary, the lone individual against the machine, middle finger raised, going it alone. Yes, fine, there’s that. However, anyone who’s actually been in a good pit knows the other thing: you only stay up because everyone around you agrees, without saying anything, to catch each other.
Grief wants to isolate you. It tells you that no one could understand this specific weight, this particular person-shaped hole in your life. That feeling is real. It’s also a trap.
I have found deep and piercing solace in female punk. There’s something in this whole wave of women making loud music together that is about the radical act of not being alone with your mind.
Love you like a sister always
Soul sister, rebel girl
Come and be my best friend
— Bikini Kill
Find the people who can sit with you at 2 a.m. without trying to fix it, who let you say the dead person’s name past the point where everyone else has stopped saying it, and who don’t flinch when the answer to “how are you?” is actually honest.
Not the people who need you to be okay. Those people can wait.
The pit works best when everyone catches each other. Apply this everywhere.
V. Honor the Person Defiantly
Funerals are for the living. People say that like it’s comforting. I’ve never quite worked out why. The living want it to be tasteful. Manageable. Resolved.
The punk move is to ask: what would actually honor this person? Do that even if it’s inconvenient.
Those that might say that this can’t be done
Can get out my way while we’re having fun
— Firewalker
I know you got a room with a view up there
Please save a spot for me
— The Interrupters
Maybe it’s a party. A real party, bad lighting, the songs they actually liked, people getting drunk and telling the stories that would’ve made them laugh.
Maybe it’s a cause they cared about.
Maybe it’s twenty people in a field crying and laughing at the same time, which is the most honest emotional state anyway.
A healthy amount of grief may be a tribute and defiance, both at the same time. On one hand, grief can be a tribute to the person or thing we have lost, reflecting our love and appreciation for them. It allows us to honor their memory and acknowledge the impact they had on our lives. On the other hand, grief can also act as a form of defiance. In this context, it can represent a resistance to the finality of loss. By grieving, we assert that the loss matters and that the emotions tied to it are valid. It reflects a refusal to simply move on without acknowledging the depth of our feelings and the significance of the relationship.
VI. Don’t Aestheticize It Too Soon
There’s a branch of medicine waiting to take your grief and hand it back to you as a growth experience. The healing journey. The gift of loss. What it teaches and how it transforms over time.
Punk has always been suspicious of the machine that absorbs genuine feeling and converts it into product.
Someday, they’ll cry to survive
They’ll wonder why you’re not alive
— White Lung
Don’t let people do that with your grief. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Sometimes loss is just brutal. It doesn’t mean anything. It isn’t making you stronger. It’s just an absence where a person used to be. You’re allowed to refuse the narrative arc that does not align with you.
Stay with the rawness as long as it’s raw. Don’t package it before it’s ready. Don’t perform the recovered version of yourself until you actually are one. Let it breathe, ugly and unfinished, for as long as it needs to be. Punk grief isn’t a program. It’s a refusal. Grief is not something you get over. It’s something you carry. It changes shape. Sometimes it gets lighter. Sometimes it ambushes you in a supermarket.
None of that is failure. You’re allowed to do this on your own terms. Loudly if you need to. Badly if that’s what comes out. That’s the whole thing.
I chose to write about this topic because our culture seems to demand that we approach grief in a very specific way, a way that I’m not sure ever worked for the people still alive, and one that I know doesn’t work now.
We need to normalize talking about grief as something deeply individual. We need to model that whatever someone needs, their version of loud, quiet, messy, or unresolved, is valid.
References
Avis, K. A., Stroebe, M., & Schut, H. (2021). Stages of grief portrayed on the internet: A systematic analysis and critical appraisal. Frontiers in Psychology, 12, 772696. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2021.772696
Costa, B. M., Hall, L., & Stewart, J. (2007). Qualitative exploration of the nature of grief-related beliefs and expectations. OMEGA—Journal of Death and Dying, 55(1), 27–56. https://doi.org/10.2190/CL20-02G6-607R-8561
Logan, E. L., Thornton, J. A., & Breen, L. J. (2018). What determines supportive behaviors following bereavement? A systematic review and call to action. Death Studies, 42(2), 104–114. https://doi.org/10.1080/07481187.2017.1329760
Maciejewski, P. K., Zhang, B., Block, S. D., & Prigerson, H. G. (2007). An empirical examination of the stage theory of grief. JAMA, 297(7), 716–723. https://doi.org/10.1001/jama.297.7.716
Stroebe, M. S., & Schut, H. (1999). The dual process model of coping with bereavement: Rationale and description. Death Studies, 23(3), 197–224. https://doi.org/10.1080/074811899201046
Author Bio
Rene Huey-Lipton is a lover of Pepsi, an equal reader of philosophy, mysteries, and all genres of romance. A burgeoning bird watcher, she is a refuser of all things housework. She is also the creator of The Women’s Economy, founder of StopApp, SheScan, and Doyenne of DAME. She writes about topics that affect women. Today, a few weeks out from the first anniversary of losing her husband, she is ruminating.
Published under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0) license for mental health awareness with editorial review.


















































