Diogo Jota grief for Liverpool players has been honestly explained by ex-player

It has been one of the most emotional and painful seasons Liverpool fans have ever witnessed. When the sad news of Diogo Jota’s death broke in July, the football world stopped for a moment. Nobody could believe it. A player so full of life, energy, and smiles suddenly gone. For Liverpool, it was more than the loss of a footballer—it was the loss of a brother, a teammate, a man who had become part of the club’s soul. And though football continues as it always does, the pain remains quietly in the hearts of everyone at Anfield.

Former Manchester City defender Nedum Onuoha recently spoke out about what Liverpool’s players may be going through emotionally after Jota’s tragic passing, and his words opened many eyes. He explained that grief doesn’t just disappear because the season starts or because players put on a brave face on the pitch. It lingers quietly. It sits in the background of every training session, every team meeting, every match. Onuoha himself went through something similar when he lost his mother during his playing career, and that experience allowed him to deeply understand what men like Virgil van Dijk, Andy Robertson, and Trent Alexander-Arnold might be feeling right now.

For Liverpool, the early part of the season started brightly. Under Arne Slot, the team looked confident and organized. They won their first five games in all competitions, scoring freely and defending well. The supporters began to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could heal through football. But then came three straight defeats. Performances began to look flat, passes went astray, and the spark seemed gone. To the ordinary fan, it may look like a tactical problem. But to those who understand human emotion, there is something deeper—something that cannot be fixed with a formation change.

Onuoha spoke with emotion during his interview on BBC Radio 5 Live. His voice cracked slightly as he shared how grief had changed his own relationship with football. “I went through what I went through with my mother passing halfway through my career,” he said. “And to be honest, in the back half of my career, I didn’t enjoy football as much. Some of the highs and lows didn’t really feel the same anymore.” His words carried weight because they came from a place of truth. He explained that after losing his mother, victories didn’t feel like celebrations anymore, and defeats didn’t hurt the same way. “It’s like something inside you changes,” he said softly.

He continued by describing how moments of silence became the hardest. “I struggled the most in the quieter times,” Onuoha said. “Those moments when you’re alone, reflecting on a game or sitting in your car after training. That’s when the memories come. That’s when you remember the person who isn’t there anymore.”

For players like Van Dijk and Robertson, every day at the AXA Training Centre must carry reminders of Jota. His locker now stands empty. His laughter no longer echoes in the hallways. The small things—the pre-match jokes, the celebrations, the handshakes—all of that has vanished, leaving only silence. “For him (Van Dijk), having lost a good friend, you can’t go to the training ground and not feel that,” Onuoha said. “Especially when Jota might have been someone really positive around people—maybe the type that people had routines with together.”

Those routines, those habits, are what hold a team together. Jota was known for being full of life and energy, always motivating others, always smiling. When a personality like that is suddenly gone, it leaves a huge hole that no new player or manager can fill. “Maybe they would talk to each other after games, maybe they would hype each other up before matches,” Onuoha added. “The trust, the belief, the connection they had during games—you lose that and things become difficult.”

Liverpool captain Virgil van Dijk has carried a heavy burden this season. He was very close to Jota, both as a teammate and as a leader. It was Van Dijk, alongside Andy Robertson, who led the team’s tributes at Jota’s funeral. Cameras captured the tears in his eyes as he stood silently by the coffin of his fallen friend. That day changed him. You can see it in the way he talks now—slower, more emotional, more reflective.

“What I would say,” Onuoha continued, “is that in my mind, I thought, if this was happening to me, you would say, ‘this is going to be a season for him.’ But that’s the best case scenario when you think this is just the start of the journey. It ends up being a lot tougher.” His point was clear. Sometimes, people think tragedy will inspire a team to play harder, to dedicate the season to the one they lost. But real life isn’t that simple. Grief doesn’t motivate everyone—it can also drain them completely.

Liverpool fans have noticed that the players often look emotionally exhausted. Even in games they’ve won, the celebrations have seemed muted. The joy that once defined this team feels different now. Every time they step onto the pitch at Anfield, the crowd remembers Jota. In the 20th minute of every home game, fans rise to their feet and sing his name. It’s a beautiful tribute, but also a painful reminder of the loss. “You’ll always remember the player,” Onuoha said. “You’ll also remember that when you get to the training ground, nobody’s going to sit in his locker. You’ll remember that the number doesn’t exist anymore. You remember the moments in this stadium that he maybe had before.”

That’s the cruel truth of grief—it never really leaves. It simply becomes a part of everyday life. For Liverpool’s players, this means learning how to play, laugh, and compete again while carrying the memory of their friend.

When Jota died, the football world sent messages of love and support. Every club, every manager, every teammate spoke about his kindness and his smile. But for those closest to him—like Van Dijk, Robertson, and Trent Alexander-Arnold—the pain didn’t end after the tributes. The days after were quiet and heavy. Training resumed, matches were played, but nothing felt normal.

Inside the dressing room, there’s a seat that remains untouched. A shirt that is no longer worn. A number that has been retired out of respect. The silence of that space tells its own story. And it’s in that silence that players like Van Dijk find themselves struggling to focus.

Arne Slot has tried his best to manage the situation with care. Since taking over from Jurgen Klopp, he has had to balance tactics and emotions. It is never easy for a new manager to step into a grieving team, but Slot has done what he can to protect his players. He often speaks softly about the need for “understanding and patience,” reminding fans that healing takes time.

But football is a cruel world. Defeats invite criticism, and critics rarely consider the emotional wounds players carry. After three straight losses, questions began to arise about the team’s mentality, Slot’s tactics, and the players’ effort. Some pundits even suggested that Liverpool had “lost their hunger.” Yet Onuoha’s words bring much-needed perspective—sometimes it’s not about hunger. Sometimes it’s about heartbreak.

Grief doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t end after a month or even a year. It changes a person’s energy, their focus, their motivation. For Liverpool, it is still only three months since Jota’s death. That is nothing in the world of healing. Every goal they score, every song they sing, every walk through the Anfield tunnel still carries his memory.

Some players cope differently. There are those who hide behind smiles, pretending to be strong. Others prefer silence, carrying their pain inside. Van Dijk is the kind who speaks less now, focusing on leading by example. Robertson, who was seen crying openly during the funeral, has tried to stay positive for others. Trent, still young, has found it difficult to express his emotions publicly. But deep down, every one of them feels the same emptiness.

Liverpool fans, known for their passion and loyalty, have tried to give their team strength. At every home game, banners of Jota’s face rise high above the Kop. Songs of his name echo through the stadium. It’s their way of saying, “We haven’t forgotten. We are with you.” But even that love cannot completely erase the pain.

As Onuoha said, “You’ll always remember him.” And that’s what makes football both beautiful and cruel—it gives moments that last forever, but it also takes people away too soon.

When you look at Liverpool now, you see a team that is fighting not just opponents, but their own emotions. You see players trying to rediscover the joy of football while carrying the shadow of loss. You see a club trying to smile again after months of tears.

And yet, in the middle of all that, there is still hope. Because that’s what Liverpool has always stood for—hope in the face of heartbreak. They know Jota would have wanted them to keep going. He would have wanted them to fight, to score, to win. He would have wanted the stadium to sing, not just for him, but for the badge he loved.

Perhaps that is why, even in defeat, Liverpool still show courage. They still press high, still chase every ball, still fight for every inch. They are not just playing for points—they are playing for memory.

The next few months will be a test of spirit. Slot will need to guide his players through emotional storms as well as football challenges. The fans will need to stay patient, remembering that grief doesn’t vanish just because the Premier League table demands results.

In time, the laughter will return to Anfield. The dressing room will fill with jokes again. The team will rediscover its rhythm. But they will never forget the one who is missing. That’s the strange thing about grief—it teaches you how to move on without truly letting go.

So when Liverpool players walk onto the pitch and touch the “This Is Anfield” sign, they will remember him. When they score a goal and point to the sky, they will be thinking of him. When they look at each other during tough moments, they will find strength in his memory.

Football can heal, but it never replaces. And for Liverpool, Diogo Jota will always remain part of their story—a chapter filled with brilliance, love, and tragedy.

As Onuoha’s reflection reminds the world, players are humans first. Beneath the jerseys, beyond the trophies, they carry hearts that break and memories that hurt. And maybe, just maybe, understanding that will help everyone—fans, pundits, and rivals alike—to look at Liverpool this season with empathy rather than judgment.

Three losses do not define this team. What defines them is how they rise again, not just as footballers, but as brothers who continue to honor the one they lost.

The season is long, and Liverpool’s journey is still being written. But in every chapter, there will always be a name whispered between the pages. Diogo Jota. Gone too soon, but never forgotten.And maybe that’s what makes Liverpool so special—because at Anfield, even in grief, they never walk alone.