It seems to me that it may be useful to think of grief as a planted seed, one inured by nature from all the hazards of surviving in hard soil, without water, wind and sun for long periods of time, which may with time blossom.
And what is that blossom? A new self, one without what was lost, which may retain some hurt for this lifetime, but which has also been transformed by the process. Such flowers grow in the winter, and are thus inherently beautiful, because they are always miraculous.