Today, my heart hurts. It’s not a poetic ache or a fleeting sadness—it’s a heavy, jagged thing that sits in my chest and won’t let go. I don’t know if it’s the kind of grief that comes from a single loss or the kind that builds up over time, layer by layer, until it demands to be felt. All I know is it’s here, and it’s loud, and I need to put it somewhere outside of me before it takes over.
Grief is a strange beast. It doesn’t care about schedules or convenience. It shows up uninvited, sits down at your table, and stares at you until you acknowledge it. Today, it’s staring hard. Maybe it’s the gray sky outside my window, or the silence in the room, or just the weight of things I can’t quite name. Whatever it is, I’m tired of pretending it’s not there.
I’ve learned something about grief, though—it doesn’t like to be bottled up. When I try to shove it down, it fights back harder, clawing at me from the inside. So I’m writing this instead. I’m spilling it out here, raw and messy, because I don’t want it to control me anymore. I don’t want to be its prisoner today.
If you’re reading this and your heart’s aching too, I see you. I don’t have answers or a neat little fix—honestly, I don’t even know if I’ll feel better by the end of this post. But I do know there’s something about sharing the hurt that makes it a little less suffocating. It’s not about fixing it; it’s about letting it breathe.
Maybe that’s what grief needs sometimes—just a little air. A chance to stretch out on the page instead of staying coiled up inside. So here I am, giving it space. My heart still aches, but it’s mine to carry, not its to rule.
Thanks for sitting with me in this. If you’ve got your own grief today, I hope you find a way to let it out too. We don’t have to carry it alone.