Grief is one of the loneliest experiences there is, even when you’re surrounded by people who care about you. Everyone grieves differently, on different timelines, and at some point the world stops making space for it, but you haven’t stopped feeling it.
You don’t have to be past it. You don’t have to be okay. You can just say where you are right now.
Some grief is socially recognised. Losing a parent, a partner, a close friend. People rally around you, bring food, send cards. There’s a shape to it.
But a lot of grief doesn’t come with that. People don’t always know how to grieve:
These losses are real. They deserve to be spoken about. But often there’s no ritual for them, no casserole on the doorstep, no bereavement leave. You’re expected to move on, and so you do, on the outside.
In the early days of grief, people show up. They check in, they listen, they say the things. But grief doesn’t follow a schedule. Months later, years later, you might still be carrying it, and by then, the people around you have moved on. They don’t bring it up because they don’t want to remind you, or they assume you’re better, or they just don’t know what to say anymore.
That can be a very isolating place to be. You’re still in it, but the permission to still be in it seems to have expired.
It hasn’t. You can say it here.
Grief isn’t linear and it doesn’t end on a schedule. Some days are fine, and then something small (a song, a smell, a random Tuesday) pulls you back under. That’s not regression. That’s just what grief is.
You don’t have to explain your timeline or justify where you are in it. You can just say what today feels like.
If grief is significantly affecting your ability to function, or if you’re having thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out:
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Say it here. No account. Nobody you know. Nothing saved.