The Shape of Grief

What remains when there is nothing left to fix.

Grief shows up as an ache from within.
One that can’t be diagnosed, or cut into and sewn up.

Grief shows up even when what’s lost is a failed dream or a wish for a different circumstance. Broken hopes come tumbling down, convoluting reality with the willingness to wish harder, work harder, bend yourself toward a different outcome.

Grief presents as personal failure.
Where did I screw up?
Self-blame and guilt. Shame.
How did I ruin everything?

Grief brings a strange sense of triumph and conclusion to ultimate lows, lows that are doubled down by the constant reminder of pain in the chest.

Grief is stubborn. It sits.
It pulsates and aches.
It allows no shortcuts.

It breaks you down so you can build back up.

The hardest part is succumbing to the pain when instant gratification could falsely mislead you, covering it with a bandage labeled not now. A story of denial you’re tempted to believe, so you can tiptoe quietly past it, like a sleeping bear you’re afraid to wake.

Going to what you think is the source of comfort,
when it is, in fact, the source of the pain.

Going to what you believe will save you,
and learning it cannot.

Grief stays until you stop bargaining.
Until you stop blaming.
Until you stop asking how to undo what was real.

Only then does it loosen its grip.