There are days—sometimes even a few in a row—where it almost feels like I’m doing okay. The air feels lighter. My chest doesn’t ache as much. I smile, maybe even laugh, and for a moment, the weight loosens its grip. I start to believe that maybe I’m turning a corner. That maybe the worst of it is behind me.
And then, out of nowhere, it hits.
A memory, a scent, a song, a date on the calendar. Or nothing at all. Just a wave that swells without warning and crashes down with a force that takes my breath away.
Suddenly, I’m back in that place. That raw, hollow, disoriented place where everything hurts again. The world moves on like nothing happened, but my insides feel like they’re unraveling. It’s not just sadness—it’s that deep, aching sorrow that fills every inch of me. The kind that makes my limbs feel heavy, my thoughts foggy, my heart bruised all over again.
It’s disorienting. One minute, I’m functioning—maybe even hopeful—and the next, I’m crumbling in the middle of the day, wondering how I’ll ever stand back up.
That’s the thing no one fully understands about grief until they experience it. It’s not a straight line. It doesn’t fade on a schedule. Healing doesn’t mean it’s over. Some days feel like progress. Others feel like you’re right back at the beginning.
And the worst part is how easily that shift can happen. How powerless it makes you feel.
But I’m learning this, too: those good days don’t disappear just because the hard ones come back. They still count. They’re still real. They remind me that I can feel something other than pain. That joy still exists, even if it’s fleeting. That healing is not erased by hurting.
So today was a hard one. I was caught off guard, swept under, brought to my knees. But I’ve made it through hard days before, and I’ll make it through this one too.
And when the next good day comes—and it will come—I’ll hold onto it without guilt or fear. I’ll breathe it in. Because in grief, the good and the hard don’t cancel each other out. They coexist. They are both part of love. Part of loss. Part of being human.
And somehow, I’m still here. Still showing up. Still moving forward, even if it’s with tears in my eyes and a heart that has yet to heal.
That’s something. Maybe even everything.