Truth is, grief is weird. It’s messy. It shows up uninvited, throws your life upside down, and then hangs around long after everyone else has stopped checking in. And maybe the worst part is how lonely it feels. Like everyone else moved on and you’re stuck holding a memory that feels too heavy to carry, but too precious to put down.
I’ve lost people too. Not that it makes me some grief expert — God, no. It’s different every time. A friend, my uncle, someone I loved deeply once. Each time, it felt like the world should’ve stopped spinning. But it didn’t. And that disconnect, that thing where the world keeps going like nothing happened, that’s what messed with me the most.
I remember walking into a coffee shop the day after a funeral, and the barista asked if I wanted oat milk. And I just… broke. Right there. Like, how could anything be normal again? How do people still make coffee and talk about oat milk when that person isn’t in the world anymore?
And I guess that’s why I’m writing this — because if you’re reading this, you’ve probably lost someone too. And maybe you’re wondering if anyone gets it, or if it’s okay that you’re not okay. So let me just say this, in case no one else has: yes, it’s okay. Yes, it’s normal. No, you’re not going crazy.
Grief doesn’t follow a straight line. It doesn’t respect calendars or logic. One minute you’re okay, and the next you’re crying because of a song, or a smell, or some dumb Facebook memory that popped up. That’s not weakness. That’s love, still living inside you.
I read somewhere once — I wish I remembered where — that grief is the price we pay for love. This article sort of touches on that. It sounds a bit cliché, maybe, but there’s something true in it. We hurt because we loved. And maybe the only way out is through.
So take your time. Don’t rush to “be okay.” Let yourself be messy. Let the memories come. Talk about them, or don’t. Write letters. Cry in your car. Laugh at the stupid inside jokes only the two of you would get. Whatever helps. There’s no wrong way to grieve. Some people find comfort in resources like this, others just need time.
And please — don’t feel like you have to be strong for everyone. That whole “stay strong” thing? It’s overrated. Be real. Be vulnerable. That’s where healing actually begins.
If you’re supporting someone who’s grieving, just… be there. You don’t have to fix it. You can’t. Just show up. Sit with them in silence. Text them three weeks after the funeral when everyone else forgets. Remember their person’s name. Say it out loud. That matters more than you know.
I don’t have the perfect words. I wish I did. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe when words aren’t enough, presence is. So wherever you are, however you’re feeling right now — I’m with you. Even if it’s just through a screen.
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll carry the people we’ve lost not in the things we say, but in how we love, how we remember, and how we keep going — even when it’s hard.
— From someone who’s been there, and is still figuring it out too.
