01/12/2026
If I were to describe my heart after loss, it wouldn’t be broken in the way people expect.
It’s intact, but altered.
My heart feels like glass and flesh intertwined — still whole, still beating — but with a permanent hollow where my person once lived. Not a crack. A room. An absence shaped exactly like them. Clean-edged, unmistakable, sacred.
There are hairline fractures across the surface. Not from shattering, but from pressure — the kind that comes from holding too much love with nowhere to put it. Those fractures don’t weaken my heart. They refract it. Everything I feel now is sharper, deeper, more honest.
Inside, there’s weight. Grief has mass. It pulls memories inward — laughter, voices, moments — orbiting that hollow so they never drift away.
There’s evidence of repair, too. Not seamless. Not hidden. Visible stitching made of time, resilience, and choice. Gold seams, because I didn’t hide what broke. I carried it forward.
My heart is darker in tone than it used to be, but richer. Storm blues. Iron greys. The colors of depth, not despair. Joy still arrives — softer, rarer — but more meaningful when it does.
Most importantly, my heart is still open. Not naïvely. Not easily. But intentionally.
Loss didn’t empty my heart. It expanded it in a painful direction — and I chose to live anyway.