08/10/2025
Not the kind of lonely where you miss a call or spend a night alone. The kind that makes you feel like you’ve been dropped into another world—one where no one speaks your language and everything familiar has gone quiet. You can be surrounded by people, even people who love you, and still feel completely unseen.
Grief is lonelier than you ever imagined. Because no one else lost your person. No one else carries the exact story, the exact moment, the exact ache that you do. People try to understand, but most don’t know what to say. So they say nothing. Or they change the subject. Or they disappear.
The silence can feel unbearable. And in that silence, you start to wonder if your pain even matters to anyone anymore.
So I want to say this clearly: I see you.
I see your pain. I see your exhaustion. I see the way you carry it all while the world keeps spinning. You're not imagining how hard this is.
There’s a whole silent, aching circle of us—grieving parents, grieving children, grieving humans—sitting in that same space. You may feel like you're the only one, but you're not. We’re here. Quiet, hurting, and holding space for each other the best we can.
You may feel like you're the only one. But you're not. You're one of us. And even if we never meet, you’re not alone.
