A Man's Struggle With Grief Throught Silent Hill
If you’ve ever looked into online counselling, you probably already know that healing is a deeply personal journey. But what if that journey is explored not just through traditional therapy—but also through video games?
As a trainee counsellor who would like to work with gamers, I’ve found that the stories we experience in games often mirror the emotional challenges we face in real life. One game that hits especially close to home is Silent Hill 2—a psychological horror masterpiece that digs deep into themes of grief, guilt, and healing. If you’re into gamer-friendly counselling, or you’re someone who feels more at home with a controller in hand killing monsters, this might resonate with you.
Heads up: major spoilers ahead for Silent Hill 2.
As I started writing this in my head, I realized how often grief and loss show up in horror stories. It’s kind of wild when you think about it—how much of our fear comes from not just monsters, but the pain of losing someone we love. Movies like The Babadook or The Descent (especially the sequel), books like Pet Sematary, and of course, video games. I’ve written a fair bit about this.
Take Dead Space, for example. One of the scariest games out there—and at its core, it’s about Isaac Clarke trying to come to terms with the loss of his girlfriend. It’s brutal, not just in its horror, but in its emotion.
And then there’s Silent Hill 2.
A few days ago, I finally finished the remake. My partner bought it for me as a birthday present—she knows her man!
You play as James Sunderland. He gets a letter from his wife, asking him to meet her in their special place… in Silent Hill.
The thing is, Mary—his wife—has been dead for three years.
Yeah. It’s heavy.
James has been carrying that grief around like a ghost on his back. And Silent Hill? It’s not just a creepy town—it’s a reflection of everything inside him. His fears, his guilt, his regrets… they take shape. In monsters. In fog. In broken buildings and impossible, reality bending, shifting spaces.
James is drowning in sorrow over what happened. And here’s where it gets really raw—Mary didn’t just die. She was terminally ill, and in pain, and one day, she asked James to help end it. And, as we find out later in the game, he did... smothered her with a pillow.
But when the game starts, he doesn’t remember that. His mind blocked it out, convinced her illness took her. That’s something our brain can do—when something is too painful, it just hides it from us.
I know a bit about that.
Back in 2000, I lost my mother and stepfather in a car crash. And to this day, I have no memory of those final seconds before the impact. My brain wiped it clean to protect me. And honestly, I’ve never wanted to dig it up. Unlike James, I’ve made peace with it. Or at least, as much peace as anyone can. It’s been 25 years, and I’m still processing. Grief doesn’t have an end date, working with together is a good grief counsellor we can come to terms with it.
The more traumatic the loss, the longer the road.
In Silent Hill 2, the town becomes James’ mirror. A twisted, fog-covered place filled with monsters that feel like they were born from nightmares. But in reality, they’re born from emotions. From guilt. James’ pain is so intense it even creates Pyramid Head—this terrifying, silent executioner who follows him everywhere.
Sometimes it feels like he’s pushing James forward, forcing him to confront the past. But other times? He’s just torment. Relentless, unstoppable. And honestly, that’s how grief can feel. Like something you can’t escape, chasing you no matter where you go.
Grief expert William Worden talks about the “Tasks of Mourning,” and the first two are: (1) accepting the reality of the loss and (2) working through the pain. I think Pyramid Head is both of those rolled into one—James’ need to suffer and also his need to make peace with what happened.
The thing is, Silent Hill isn’t good or evil. It just reflects what’s already inside you. James, Angela, Eddie—they all go through different versions of the town, shaped by their own trauma.
And despite all the horror, Silent Hill 2 has something important to say about grief.
It’s not easy. It’s not clean. You don’t just “get over it.” You go through it. You face things you don’t want to. You feel broken, lost, angry. But that's part of healing. You can’t skip it.
The other tasks of grief? Adjusting to life without our loved ones. And finding a way to carry them forward emotionally—without being stuck.
The game’s multiple endings show that working through grief comes with some ambiguity. There’s no one way through. And honestly? We don’t know who we’ll become on the other side of it.
This is why I believe is good to walk through is with a good grief counsellor.
Even now, over 2 decades later, I’m still learning about myself. Still figuring out how that loss shaped me and continuous to shape me.
That’s the thing with grief—it can destroy you, but it can also transform you.
In the end, James finds a kind of redemption. His final confrontation with Pyramid Head isn’t a fight where he wins. It’s one where Pyramid Head takes himself out. He’s no longer needed.
"I know what you are. I know why I needed you.
But it’s all over now. I don’t need you anymore.
I’m ready."
There are multiple endings, some darker than others, but the one that’s considered canon is the one where James is finally ready to let go. To forgive himself. To accept that the past can’t change—and Mary is gone.
He walks away from Silent Hill with Laura, to the sound of Mary’s final words:
"You made me happy."
And that’s the part that sticks with me.
Yes, the pain of losing someone never fully leaves. But neither do the memories. The laughter. The love. We carry that with us, too.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough to keep going