There’s a strange heaviness in carrying something you can’t put into words. If you can’t articulate it—even to yourself—it lingers, shapeless, pressing down like an overstuffed bag you refuse to unpack. The weight doesn’t lessen until you sit with it, turn it over, and force it into sentences. And even then, the words aren’t for the world; they’re for you.
Some things take longer to process. Some things take years. The real test isn’t how quickly you “get over” something—it’s whether you’ve done the work to move through it, rather than stuffing it into the back of your mind like a suitcase that won’t quite close.
And then there’s the other side of it—the self-blame. If a boundary was crossed, if someone hurt you, if you let them too close, the instinct is often to be angry at yourself. How did this happen? Why didn’t I see it coming? The brain is ruthless that way, replaying moments like a bad TV rerun. But here’s what doesn’t get said enough: forgiveness isn’t just for others. You have to forgive yourself, too. For not knowing better. For trusting the wrong person. For being human.
Grief, in all its forms, has a way of taking over. It’s strange how something so invisible can feel so consuming. It fills up space where hunger should be, where laughter should be, where focus should be. It sits in your chest like an unanswered question, like a guest who overstays their welcome. And just when you think you’ve reached the bottom of it, you find there’s still more.
But that’s the thing about being broken open—it’s not the end. It’s the starting line. The real race begins when you’re stripped raw, when you think there’s nothing left, when you’re sure you have nothing more to give. That’s when the rebuilding starts. That’s when you find out who you are, not just in the easy moments, but in the hard ones.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the part worth holding on to.
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