Today, my heart is heavy. Not in some poetic, wistful way — it’s the kind of heavy that digs in and refuses to budge. A real, jagged kind of hurt. And honestly, I can’t even tell you if it’s from one thing or a hundred small ones stacked up over time. All I know is it’s here, it’s loud, and it needs somewhere to land before it takes up every inch of me.
Grief is a stubborn, wild thing. It doesn’t care if you have work to do, places to be, or a thousand other things you’re supposed to be holding together. It shows up, uninvited, and demands attention. Today, it’s camped out in front of me, arms crossed, daring me to look away. Maybe it’s the gray sky outside. Maybe it’s the silence that feels too big. Or maybe it’s just life, being life — messy and relentless.
I used to think if I ignored it long enough, it would get tired and leave. Spoiler: it doesn’t. Push it down, and it just claws harder, until you’re left dragging it around like dead weight. So I’m doing the only thing that seems to work — giving it space. Letting it spill out here, imperfect and raw, because I’m tired of letting it run the show from the shadows.
If you’re reading this and you feel cracked wide open too, I see you. I’m not here to fix it — hell, I’m barely holding it together myself. But I do know this: grief hates silence. It feeds on it. Giving it a voice — even a shaky, unfinished one — takes away some of its power.
Maybe that’s all today is about: letting the hurt breathe instead of letting it suffocate me. My heart still aches. That part’s not magic-ed away. But for once, it’s me carrying it — not the other way around.
Thanks for sitting with me in this mess. If you’re carrying your own today, I hope you find some small way to let it out too. We weren’t meant to do this alone.