You Didn’t Ask for This: When Life Happens Without Your Permission

Some things in life you choose—relationships, careers, cities you call home. Other things? They just happen to you.

Without warning. Without consent. Without your permission.

And suddenly, you're left holding the weight of something you didn’t cause, didn’t want, and didn’t prepare for. But now, you're the one expected to move through it. Navigate it. Survive it. Maybe even heal from it.

And what do people say when they see you going through something hard?

“Be strong.”

“You’ve got this.”

“You’re a fighter.”

“You’re so resilient.”

The kind of phrases meant to uplift but often feel like emotional duct tape slapped over a shattering window.

If you’ve ever been through something life-altering that you didn’t choose, then you know: being told to “be strong” can feel enraging. You didn’t want to have to be strong. You didn’t sign up to fight. You didn’t ask to be tested. You just wanted your life to keep going the way it was.

But now, you don’t get to opt out. You don’t get to step aside. You don’t get to hand this off to someone else. You’re in it.

Whether you’re grieving the death of someone you love, reeling from an unexpected illness, trying to pick up the pieces after a breakup or divorce you never wanted, or scrambling to find your footing after losing a job or facing a betrayal—you know the feeling:

This is not fair. This is not okay. And I didn’t choose this.

That’s the core of what I want to name here—the deep, disorienting grief that comes with losing a version of your life you thought was safe. You thought it would always be there. You thought you had control. You thought you had time. And in an instant, it's gone.

We often think of grief only in the context of death. And yes, death cracks us open in a specific, searing way. But grief goes beyond the death of a loved one. Grief hits us when a part of our life dies—a part of our future, a part of ourselves.

Grief is what shows up when something ends before you were ready. Grief is the heartbreak of watching a version of your life disappear. Grief is the emptiness that lingers when something you counted on is suddenly gone. Grief is the rage that builds when you realize you have to figure out how to keep going.

People say time heals, and maybe it does. But it doesn't erase the fact that you were robbed.

And that's the thing—we understand robbery when it happens to physical possessions. There are laws. Systems. Accountability. Someone is at fault. Something can be made right.

But when life robs you of stability, of love, of health, of opportunity, of the future you imagined—no one is held accountable.

There’s no system to validate the injustice.

No one goes to court.

No one says, “This shouldn’t have happened to you, and we’ll make it right.”

Instead, you’re just expected to deal with it.

Quietly. Gracefully. Preferably without making anyone else uncomfortable.

But the truth is, the grief of losing something you didn’t consent to lose is raw, infuriating, and lonely. It’s a different kind of heartbreak. One that doesn’t get enough airtime.

And it’s this very grief—the kind that doesn’t come with a funeral or a diagnosis or a defined name—that slows everything down. Because first, you have to wrap your head around the fact that this is really happening. You have to move through the dissonance, the denial, the overwhelming wish that someone will walk in and undo it all, tell you it was a mistake, let you go back.

But they don’t.

And you can’t.

And now, here you are.

The Consent We Never Get

In my profession—and in many professions—we’re required to obtain informed consent before we have any meaningful contact with a client. It’s not just a formality. It’s a core principle.

Informed consent means a person understands what’s about to happen, has been told the potential risks and benefits, and agrees—freely and voluntarily—to proceed. It protects people’s rights. It respects their autonomy. It ensures they understand, have choices, and the right to ask questions.

There are four key elements:

1. Competence – the ability to understand and make a decision.

2. Disclosure – providing all relevant information, clearly and thoroughly.

3. Understanding – the person actually gets what’s being explained.

4. Voluntariness – the decision is made freely, without pressure or coercion.

   
   

We nod along with these concepts easily when talking about medical procedures or therapy. Of course people should be informed. Of course they should get to say yes or no.

But what about how life treats us?

What if, just before someone we love is taken from us, or before a life-altering diagnosis, or right before a betrayal or layoff or sudden trauma hits us—what if we could hit pause?

What if we got to ask questions?

What if we got to weigh our options?

What if our autonomy remained intact?

What if we could say no?

But that’s the cruel reality—we don’t get informed consent.

Not with death.

Not with loss.

Not with unexpected illness or injustice.

We don’t get to weigh the risks.

We don’t get to ask for alternatives.

We don’t get to opt out.

And we don’t get the basic dignity of agreeing to move forward.

And I want to be clear—I’m not saying we should be able to play God or rewrite time. I don’t believe “everything happens for a reason.” I think shitty things happen and they make us feel like shit and we sit in the shit, wishing this shit never happened. And I think that’s valid.

I make this point about informed consent because it highlights just how much autonomy is stripped from us when life falls apart. It shows how disorienting it is to suddenly be at the center of something you didn’t choose, with no one to blame, no path to justice, and no way to decline.

And so all that grief, all that blame, all that anger—it often turns inward. Because there’s nowhere else for it to go.

That’s what makes unchosen pain so damn hard.

There’s no paperwork.

No warning.

No right of refusal.

Just the demand to survive.

So... How Do We Begin?

How do we even begin to process something that broke into our life without permission?

We start by telling the truth.

We start by saying, “I didn’t ask for this,” out loud, without apology.

We start by naming the loss—not just the physical or tangible thing, but the dream we had, the future we expected, the security we thought we could count on.

We start by validating the violation, even when no one else will.

We grieve.

We rage.

We question.

We fall apart.

And slowly, maybe, we begin to stitch something new together.

Not because we’re “strong.”

Not because we “got this.”

But because we don’t have a choice.

And in the absence of choice, maybe the most radical thing we can do is choose to feel it anyway. To not pretend. To not perform strength. To not rush the process.

Because being human means sometimes getting dragged into chapters we didn’t write.

And still—the pages turn.

Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me When the World Fell Apart

1. You’re allowed to hate this. All of it. Every second. Every piece of it. Hate it with your whole chest.

2. The person you used to be might not come back. That doesn’t mean you’re lost. It means you’re changing.

3. You can be angry at people who mean well. People who mean well can still hurt you. Even people who love you.

4. You’re allowed to scream in the car, stare blankly at the ceiling, cry in the shower. Those are not weak moments. They’re survival.

5. The worst kind of loneliness is when no one else sees the unfairness—but I do. I see it.

6. You don’t owe anyone a polished explanation. Not for what happened. Not for how you're coping.

7. You are not being dramatic. You are not too sensitive. You are having a completely human reaction to something dehumanizing.

8. Even if no one says it—you deserved better. You still deserve better.

9. You don’t have to make meaning out of pain. Sometimes pain just f**king hurts.

10. This isn’t fair. And it’s not your fault. And you are not alone—not in how it happened, not in how it feels.

If You’re Still Holding the Wreckage

If you’re reading this and your chest feels tight and your throat aches from holding back all the words no one has made space for—this part is for you.

You are not the sum of the story you never asked for. You are not what this uninvited event has decided you are. You are still here, breathing, grieving, raging, maybe even hoping—and that is no small thing.

Being wronged and then told it’s your fault is a special kind of cruelty. Being hurt and then expected to carry it quietly is violation in slow motion. Holding pain that no one else will claim is like dragging a 1,000 pound statue through a crowd that won't even acknowledge it exists.

So if your world has fallen apart too, let’s just sit here together. Not fixing it. Not pretending. Just honoring the fact that it happened—and that you’re still standing in the rubble. That alone makes you brave.

You didn’t ask for this. And still, you’re here. And still, you matter.