How Atheists Cope with Grief
In my book, Suddenly Silent and Still, I disclose I am an atheist and recount my lonesome journey through grief without a divine hand to hold. Several readers have expressed interest in understanding how atheists cope under senseless suffering. What do atheists do in tough times without faith to lean on? Some readers even left prayers on my behalf instead of a book review. Thank you. I appreciate you caring. In a nutshell, without a saviour, we lean on ourselves: our grit, resilience, and will.
Why I am an atheist
I am an atheist not from rebellion nor from lack of exposure—I have read the bible end-to-end and attended church throughout my catholic schooling. My atheism simply comes down to having not seen enough evidence. If one day God were to appear in a way I could comprehend, I would reevaluate. But in forty-five years of walking this earth, no divine voice has spoken to me in a language I understand. The two-way conversation I imagine in my mind between me and God, though often poetic and insightful, is not a genuine conversation.
It must be comforting to believe in a higher power that weaves every misfortune into a grand design. When tragedy strikes, a believer might say, “It’s part of His plan,” or “This is a test, and I’ll emerge stronger.” There is peace in surrendering control, especially when you are not in control. For atheists, that comfort does not exist. There is no celestial hand pulling us through the fire. All we have are our five senses, the observable universe, and the full weight of our inner thoughts to make sense of the seemingly senseless. A hug from a loved one, though comforting and necessary in times of sadness, cannot undo, explain, or rectify the unfathomable situation.
Our faith in nothingness is tested
Ironically, just as tragedy can shake someone’s belief in God, it can shake an atheist's conviction in randomness. When something rare, cruel, and deeply personal happens, it can feel like more than chance. To suffer in a way that statistics said was near impossible can feel like the atheist is chosen. Perhaps not by God, but by some force larger than themselves. Unlikely tragedies challenge the atheist’s faithlessness, and, in their vulnerability, some do turn to God, at least for a moment.
Choosing to go on - nihilism or existentialism
After the dust settles, the atheist is left with a question that religious believers rarely ask in earnest: Should I continue living? That is when the life review begins. What remains? What is still beautiful? What is still worth tasting? This isn’t a clean, two-column comparison between losses and gratitude. It’s an emotional examination that drags on for weeks or months because grief is a shape-shifter—it swells, shrinks and morphs. But eventually, it stabilises in form. And that’s when the most honest reckoning begins: Can I carry on given this new norm?
Absent a divine framework, the atheist must select a philosophical orientation. The two choices are the school of nihilism or existentialism. Nihilism, which asserts that life is intrinsically meaningless, has a certain sophisticated logic. After all, no one remembers where they were before birth; no one truly knows where they go after death. Our inconsequential stint here really does not matter. Yet to live by nihilism is, frankly, miserable. If I am to remain and live out the remainder of this life, then I prefer to choose existentialism. It is the belief that while life has no predetermined meaning; it is our responsibility to forge one. Meaning is not given, but must be made.
My road to purpose
In crafting my purpose, I often recall an old anime I encountered in my early twenties. Its message has stayed with me for over two decades. A boy sits on a bridge, crying, mourning the death of his parents. A stranger passes by, listens, and then tells him, “Since we are here anyway, we can keep crying on the bridge or go find something interesting to do.” The stranger extends a hand and pulls the boy up. Together, their adventure begins.
This has become the gospel I live by: if you’re here, find something that makes being here worthwhile. A passion, a project, a person—anything that gives weight to the void. If one chooses to remain, then one must also choose to engage with life, anchoring oneself in curiosity, in creation, in connection. This engagement becomes an act of resistance against despair.
Faith does not guide the atheist’s healing, rather, it is by time, choice, and stubborn effort. Eventually, with time, repetition, and one foot in front of the other, the distance grows, and the trauma outpaced—but never erased. One unremarkable step after another, every day, for years is not divine intervention. It is human resilience, unaided but no less remarkable.
Suddenly Silent and Still
Why I am an atheist
I am an atheist not from rebellion nor from lack of exposure—I have read the bible end-to-end and attended church throughout my catholic schooling. My atheism simply comes down to having not seen enough evidence. If one day God were to appear in a way I could comprehend, I would reevaluate. But in forty-five years of walking this earth, no divine voice has spoken to me in a language I understand. The two-way conversation I imagine in my mind between me and God, though often poetic and insightful, is not a genuine conversation.
It must be comforting to believe in a higher power that weaves every misfortune into a grand design. When tragedy strikes, a believer might say, “It’s part of His plan,” or “This is a test, and I’ll emerge stronger.” There is peace in surrendering control, especially when you are not in control. For atheists, that comfort does not exist. There is no celestial hand pulling us through the fire. All we have are our five senses, the observable universe, and the full weight of our inner thoughts to make sense of the seemingly senseless. A hug from a loved one, though comforting and necessary in times of sadness, cannot undo, explain, or rectify the unfathomable situation.
Our faith in nothingness is tested
Ironically, just as tragedy can shake someone’s belief in God, it can shake an atheist's conviction in randomness. When something rare, cruel, and deeply personal happens, it can feel like more than chance. To suffer in a way that statistics said was near impossible can feel like the atheist is chosen. Perhaps not by God, but by some force larger than themselves. Unlikely tragedies challenge the atheist’s faithlessness, and, in their vulnerability, some do turn to God, at least for a moment.
Choosing to go on - nihilism or existentialism
After the dust settles, the atheist is left with a question that religious believers rarely ask in earnest: Should I continue living? That is when the life review begins. What remains? What is still beautiful? What is still worth tasting? This isn’t a clean, two-column comparison between losses and gratitude. It’s an emotional examination that drags on for weeks or months because grief is a shape-shifter—it swells, shrinks and morphs. But eventually, it stabilises in form. And that’s when the most honest reckoning begins: Can I carry on given this new norm?
Absent a divine framework, the atheist must select a philosophical orientation. The two choices are the school of nihilism or existentialism. Nihilism, which asserts that life is intrinsically meaningless, has a certain sophisticated logic. After all, no one remembers where they were before birth; no one truly knows where they go after death. Our inconsequential stint here really does not matter. Yet to live by nihilism is, frankly, miserable. If I am to remain and live out the remainder of this life, then I prefer to choose existentialism. It is the belief that while life has no predetermined meaning; it is our responsibility to forge one. Meaning is not given, but must be made.
My road to purpose
In crafting my purpose, I often recall an old anime I encountered in my early twenties. Its message has stayed with me for over two decades. A boy sits on a bridge, crying, mourning the death of his parents. A stranger passes by, listens, and then tells him, “Since we are here anyway, we can keep crying on the bridge or go find something interesting to do.” The stranger extends a hand and pulls the boy up. Together, their adventure begins.
This has become the gospel I live by: if you’re here, find something that makes being here worthwhile. A passion, a project, a person—anything that gives weight to the void. If one chooses to remain, then one must also choose to engage with life, anchoring oneself in curiosity, in creation, in connection. This engagement becomes an act of resistance against despair.
Faith does not guide the atheist’s healing, rather, it is by time, choice, and stubborn effort. Eventually, with time, repetition, and one foot in front of the other, the distance grows, and the trauma outpaced—but never erased. One unremarkable step after another, every day, for years is not divine intervention. It is human resilience, unaided but no less remarkable.
Suddenly Silent and Still
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Brad wrote: "Great post Nin. I have always been an agnostic because I strongly believe no one can prove god exists but neither can they prove he doesn’t. My survival kit was grit, sarcasm, and pushing forward..."
You have got to be kidding me. Your story gave me goosebumps! At least you have his attention now.
I have always been an agnostic because I strongly believe no one can prove god exists but neither can they prove he doesn’t. My survival kit was grit, sarcasm, and pushing forward without expecting divine backup. Over time though, I found myself leaning more and more toward becoming a full-blown atheist—until a few nights ago, when everything tilted.
After all the chaos God Mob stirred up in both Heaven and Hell, the angel Gabriel showed up in my room. Not a dream—at least it didn’t feel like one. He told me my blasphemy had made waves on both sides, and instead of condemning me, he gave me a glimpse. He pulled back the curtain on the afterlife and showed me exactly what happens to the famous—politicians, pop stars, preachers, billionaires—depending on how they lived their lives. Some bribed, some begged, some suffered, and some got handed punishments so ironic they made Dante look like a children’s author.
And then Gabriel gave me an order:
Write the follow-up.
So now I’m working on it:
Heaven & Hell: As Told by the Angel Gabriel to Brad Deep.
That leaves me in a strange place. I still carry the same doubts you wrote about—maybe I always will—but now I’ve also seen something I can’t unsee. You wrote about resilience as the atheist’s answer. For me, it’s satire. Different paths, same fight: trying to wrestle meaning out of the void.
Someone once told me: we are all alone together. That line never made more sense than it does now.