Five Things John Wick Taught Me About Dealing with Grief

I never batted two eyes when John Wick first came out. I figured it was a James Patterson novel turned into a movie — some James-Bond-esque thriller ending in Michael Bay explosions and a make-out scene with the hot blonde of the moment.

Boy, was I wrong about Mr. Wick.

I didn’t actually watch the film until a couple of years ago. But once I did, I followed it from streamer to streamer. When it landed on Hulu and Disney Plus I thought, oh yeah. When I found it free on YouTube, I nearly fell out of bed with excitement.

I’m focusing here on the first movie. The other three are great, but it’s John Wick (2014) that hooked me. One night, while I was about to watch it for the tenth time that week, my husband asked, “Do we have to watch it? It has so much gore.” He’s not a fan of red fluids, so I respected his wishes, grabbed my tablet and a blanket, and retreated to the guest room to watch alone.

Somewhere around the airport-terminal scene — John doing tire-squealing laps in his Boss 429 Mustang to blow off steam — I realized I was putting myself in John’s shoes. The more I thought about it, the more I felt the movie wasn’t just a high-octane action flick. It was speaking to me about grief.

I was, consciously or not, using it to process my own losses. Here are five lessons John Wick taught me about grieving a loved one — no contract killings required.

1. John’s Routine

The movie opens with routine. John wakes at a precise time, brews coffee beside his late wife’s favorite mug, takes his car out for a dawn joyride. The security guard at the airport terminal even knows him on sight. His pattern shifts only when a final gift from his wife arrives: a beagle puppy named Daisy. Suddenly John’s solitary ritual includes feedings, potty breaks, and a living reminder of love.

After my parents died, I had a routine too, but not a healthy one — work, pay bills, eat, watch TV, drink until my eyes glazed, sleep. Only when I gave up wine, started cooking with my husband, and made space for reading and screen-free time did a healthier rhythm emerge. A steady routine, I learned, is the first defense against despair.

2. Prepare to Be Kicked While You’re Down

Then comes the home invasion. Daisy hears intruders and barks; John follows and is clubbed with a baseball bat. He wakes to find Daisy dead and his car stolen — a calculated, almost ritual humiliation by mob-connected punks.

Life did the same to me. While mourning my parents, I racked up medical diagnoses, faced debt collectors, and endured landlords punishing me for a single late rent payment. I even lost a job when grief made functioning impossible. The blows kept coming. Grief rarely travels alone.

3. You Have to Fight

John scrubs Daisy’s blood from the floor, notes the wrecked Mustang, and chooses action over paralysis. He digs up his hidden weapons and gold coins, calls in old favors, and storms a neon-lit nightclub in a ballet of gun-fu vengeance.

I don’t condone violence, but I understand the metaphor. Eventually I got tired of lying down. My fight meant therapy, proper medication, and a medical team who listened — my own version of the Continental’s professional backup. Fighting back can mean reclaiming your mental health, one appointment or résumé at a time.

4. Ask: Is It Worth It?

When the Russian mob finally captures him, Viggo Ta­rasso sneers, “All this because of a puppy?” John answers, “It wasn’t just a puppy.” Every ounce of pain and love is packed into that line.

Grief tempts you to give up, but life is still worth it. There will be perfect-weather days and brutal ones when every bill hits at once. Surviving both is proof that life itself — beyond things or pets — is worth the fight.

5. Don’t Dig Your Own Grave

Three sequels show what happens when vengeance becomes habit. Each film raises the bounty and the body count. If John had paused to count the personal cost, he might have stopped.

I take that as a warning. I watched my mother give her health to an employer who discarded her and my father drift through life without purpose. I don’t want to cross lines I can’t uncross. My peace is worth guarding.

Final Takeaway

John Wick is more than slick gunplay. It’s a meditation on loss, choice, and how pain can spiral if left unchecked. From John I learned to build healthy routines, expect hard hits, fight for my well-being, measure whether a battle is worth it, and refuse to become my own worst enemy.

That’s the kind of resilience no assassin’s skill set can replace.