10/05/2025
Today, I sat with grief.
There was no noise, no distractions, just me and the weight in my heart.
I thought if I stayed silent long enough, maybe grief would slip away.
But it stayed beside me, patient and still.
I tried to turn my back on it,
hoping it would lose its way.
But wherever I moved, it moved too,
like a shadow I couldn’t outrun.
This wasn’t a game—it was real, and it was heavy.
I changed rooms, changed scenery,
but grief was always there, waiting for me,
with a tear-streaked face that mirrored my own sadness.
I asked it why it wouldn’t leave,
why it clung to me so tightly.
But grief never answered,
because grief doesn’t need to.
So instead of pushing it away,
I let it sit beside me.
I stopped pretending I was fine.
I allowed myself to feel everything,
to show every crack, every broken piece.
Grief didn’t ask questions.
It didn’t rush me to heal.
It just stayed, patiently,
while I learned to breathe again.
Grief ate with me,
slept with me,
walked with me.
And slowly, I understood—
even if grief someday grows quieter,
the love behind it will never leave.
Because you are still gone,
and part of me will always miss you.
But sitting with grief?
It’s how I honor what was real.
