Grief Is Just Love with Nowhere to Go

Grief Is Just Love with Nowhere to Go

They told me grief would come in waves.

They didn’t say some waves would come years later, quiet and sneaky, in the middle of doing dishes, or folding laundry, or hearing a song you forgot they loved.

They didn’t say that some waves wouldn't crash but instead soak into everything—your voice, your sleep, your silence.

They didn’t say that grief isn’t always loud.

Sometimes, it’s a whisper. A missing fork at the dinner table. A voicemail you can’t delete. The way no one uses their name anymore, like saying it aloud might open a wound we’ve all tried to suture shut.

The day after my mother died, I ironed a dress shirt for my brother.

I remember thinking how strange it was—this world where she was no longer breathing but starch still mattered. Where funeral clothes had to be wrinkle-free, and people brought pies to the house like dessert could fill the hole she left behind.

I remember thinking: Why does everything look the same?

The kitchen. The street. My toothbrush.

How could the sun keep rising like it didn’t notice the Earth had cracked?

The truth is, grief didn’t arrive like a tsunami. It arrived like fog.

Slow. Quiet. Creeping into everything before I realized I was walking through it blind.

And I walked through it for a long time.

I still do.

I used to think grief was a moment. An event. The crying at the funeral. The shaking hands. The tight hug from someone you barely know who says "she’s in a better place."

But grief isn’t a moment. It’s a place. A country you move to and never quite leave. You learn the language. You learn where not to step. You learn that some days, you’ll miss them like air.

You keep living, yes.

But you live differently.

Like there’s a window cracked somewhere inside you—letting in both the cold and the memory of warmth.

Grief, I’ve found, is just love that doesn’t know where to go anymore.

It used to go to her.

Into birthday cards, late-night texts, shared laughter at the ridiculous things only we found funny. Into her hands when she’d squeeze mine at the grocery store for no reason at all.

Now that love has nowhere to land. So it floats. It aches. It stings in strange places.

Some mornings, it settles in my throat.

Some nights, it curls beside me like a ghost I never invited.

No one tells you that grief can look like anger. Like exhaustion. Like forgetting where you left your keys for the third time in a week. Like not answering messages because you’re too tired to pretend you’re fine.

No one tells you that grief isn’t just about missing someone—it’s about everything you didn’t get to say.

The fights you didn’t get to apologize for.

The thank yous you didn’t say loudly enough.

The way you thought you had more time.

But grief has taught me things, too.

It’s taught me that love doesn’t vanish just because someone does.

It’s taught me that crying in the car is normal. That laughing at their favorite joke six years later is healing. That smelling their old sweater isn’t weird—it’s sacred.

Grief has taught me to be softer with people.

Because I now understand we’re all carrying something invisible.

A name we don’t say.

A photo we don’t post.

A hurt we revisit when the world goes quiet.

Some days, I’m okay.

The sun feels warm, and the world feels kind, and I can say her name out loud without choking on it.

Other days, she is everywhere.

In the smile of a stranger.

In the way someone tilts their head when they laugh.

In the sudden urge to call her, even though I know the number doesn’t work anymore.

And still, I reach.

That’s the thing about grief.

Even when you know better, your heart still reaches.

If you’re grieving, and you’re reading this, I want you to know something:

You’re not broken.

You’re not behind.

You’re not failing.

You’re learning how to love someone in their absence. And that is one of the hardest, most human things you will ever do.

There is no map for this. No timeline. No checklist.

Grief doesn’t follow logic. It doesn’t follow time.

It just follows love.

So, let your grief breathe.

Let it be messy. Let it curl up in your chest some nights and disappear the next.

Let it show you what mattered.

Let it remind you of the depth of your capacity to care.

Because grief, in all its sharpness and silence, is proof that we dared to love someone more than we could bear to lose.

And that, in itself, is something beautiful.

Something worth honoring.

I once thought grief was an ending. Now I know—it’s just another form of love.

And love, no matter how bruised or quiet, is always worth carrying.