@theparenttrail:

theparenttrail
theparenttrail
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Saturday 19 July 2025 23:03:45 GMT
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Grief is weird. It’s physical. It takes up space in your body, your brain, your routines. It makes everything harder in ways that are invisible from the outside. You still have to send emails. Feed your kid. Return a text. People expect you to be functional long before you feel like a person again. No one prepares you for how tired you’ll be. Not sleepy tired. Just existentially tired, completely spent. It makes sense that it takes up energy to retire your whole worldview to account for losing someone you imagined to be there.  And no one else really knows what to say, either. So they fall back on the usual: “I’m so sorry for your loss.” It’s kind. It’s true. But it doesn’t even come close to touch the absurdity of it all. How everything around you demands fast, and you just want slow. How you’re suddenly expected to make medical decisions or funeral arrangements or explain death to a child while your brain is still buffering. This post isn’t meant to explain grief. I can’t. I don’t even understand it myself. I DO know what it feels like to be inside it. And if you’re in it too, you’re not alone. Some days will still feel hollow, empty and searching. But others will carry something else. A moment of ease. A  tiny moment when you feel joy or notice beauty for what it is and not so much a lingering sadness, that will fade. That’s not moving on. That’s being alive.  You’re not doing it wrong. Grief doesn’t make sense to anyone that has to live it. And that’s okay.
Grief is weird. It’s physical. It takes up space in your body, your brain, your routines. It makes everything harder in ways that are invisible from the outside. You still have to send emails. Feed your kid. Return a text. People expect you to be functional long before you feel like a person again. No one prepares you for how tired you’ll be. Not sleepy tired. Just existentially tired, completely spent. It makes sense that it takes up energy to retire your whole worldview to account for losing someone you imagined to be there. And no one else really knows what to say, either. So they fall back on the usual: “I’m so sorry for your loss.” It’s kind. It’s true. But it doesn’t even come close to touch the absurdity of it all. How everything around you demands fast, and you just want slow. How you’re suddenly expected to make medical decisions or funeral arrangements or explain death to a child while your brain is still buffering. This post isn’t meant to explain grief. I can’t. I don’t even understand it myself. I DO know what it feels like to be inside it. And if you’re in it too, you’re not alone. Some days will still feel hollow, empty and searching. But others will carry something else. A moment of ease. A tiny moment when you feel joy or notice beauty for what it is and not so much a lingering sadness, that will fade. That’s not moving on. That’s being alive. You’re not doing it wrong. Grief doesn’t make sense to anyone that has to live it. And that’s okay.

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