the ache you cannot see

there are days when you wake up and everything is still in its place.

the dishes are clean, the sun is soft, someone somewhere is laughing, and yet—you can’t breathe.

not in a panic attack kind of way, but in a something’s missing kind of way.

something invisible. imperceptible.

a hollowness tucked neatly behind your ribcage.

this is grief.yes, even this.

grief doesn’t always announce itself in mourning attire.

it doesn't always stand beside a casket or cue the violins.

sometimes it slinks in—quiet, ambient, polite.

it shows up in your favorite coffee shop, seated across from you with no name and no face, only a presence.

it lingers like perfume you didn’t put on.

sometimes it arrives when you don’t get the job.

when you pour and pour and are still met with emptiness.

when the life you dreamed of sends no forwarding address.

when your timeline fractures.

when your spine is bent under expectations you were never built to carry.

let’s talk about that.

1. what grief really looks like (hint: it doesn’t care for dress codes)

grief is not death-bound.

it is not limited to funerals, nor does it require an obituary.

it is a cartography of loss—mapped not only by who or what is gone, but by what was hoped for, and never held.

grief is:

mourning a self you were once so certain you’d become

waking up with the knowledge that joy used to be easier

sitting in silence and realizing no one asks how you’re really doing anymore

scrolling past baby photos, wedding announcements, new job titles—and feeling your stomach sour, not from envy, but from distance

looking back at the girl you were before the heartbreak, the burnout, the ghosting, the child, the silence, the storm—and realizing she's still in there, just quieter now

grief is the ache that simmers.

not always sharp, but constant.

a phantom limb of the soul.

and yet we question its validity.

because it doesn't scream.

because it isn’t visible.

but i’m here to tell you: if your body is carrying it, it is real.

2. the first step: say the thing (even if it tastes like rust)

grief does not loosen its grip until you say its name.

not just “i’m sad,” but:“i’m grieving something i never got.”

“i’m grieving someone who left without warning.”

“i’m grieving the blueprint of a life that never materialized.”

“i’m grieving who i used to be when i believed in magic and mornings and maybe.”

after truth, comes unraveling.

and yes—it might be rage.

it might be tired tears that salt your pillow without permission.

it might be bitterness you don’t want to admit.

it might be a silence so loud it hums in your bones.

you may not look graceful.

you may not feel lovable.

you might even scare yourself.

but here’s the grace:grief is not a personality flaw.

you are not “too emotional,” “too intense,” “too much.”

you are telling truth—something shamed upon by society.

3. we were taught performance, not processing

somewhere between childhood and the capitalistic machine, we learned the art of repression.

emotions became obstacles.

tears were weakness.

"just keep going" became the anthem.

we were not taught to cradle our sorrow with tenderness.

we were taught to smile.

to archive.

to sand ourselves down until we looked easier to love.

so now, when grief shows up, we sink.

we self-soothe with busyness.

we medicate with distractions.

we become strangers to our own interiors.

of course, we’re lost.no one ever gave us the map.

4. how to actually process your grief (without becoming a walking wound)

the goal isn’t to escape grief or conquer it.it’s to learn its shape.to understand the language of its presence.to let it soften in the light, rather than let it fester in the dark.

here are gentle, present-minded ways to meet your grief halfway—not as a project, but as a part of your becoming:

mirror witnessing. each morning or night, look yourself in the eyes and say one honest sentence. “i am tired.” “i miss her.” “i don’t know who i am right now.” let your face know your truth.

object ritual. choose a small item—a stone, a scarf, a dried flower. hold it each time the ache rises. give your grief somewhere to land that isn’t just inside your body.

write letters you don’t send. to the person who left. to the version of yourself that never arrived. to god, even if you’re not on speaking terms. let your grief have language, even if it’s jagged.

seasonal syncing. observe the weather that matches your grief: foggy mornings, brittle cold, soft winds. honor it by mirroring that energy with gentleness, slowness, or warmth.

grief playlist. not sad music for the sake of sadness, but music that understands you. create a soundscape that speaks the words you can’t.

5-minute body scan. lay flat. no goals, no fixing. simply ask your body, “where are you hurting today?” then breathe into that place like it’s a child in need of holding.

create something ruinous and beautiful.

a messy poem.

a moodboard.

a torn-up collage.

grief often wants to make art.

let it.

you are not meant to be perfect through this.

you are meant to be. honest. alive. tender. erupting. recovering.

grief doesn’t want to ruin you.

it wants to rebuild you.

and finally: you are not broken

you are not broken.

you are becoming.

there is no shame in sorrow.

no shame in softness.

no shame in needing a minute—or a year.

you are not behind.you are not unlovable.

you are not too late.

you are not your grief.but it is part of you—and you, beloved, could never be a waste.

hope lives in strange places.in held breaths.

in hot tea. in the softness of your own sheets.

but you won’t know unless you bite down. hold on.

you are not damaged.

you are not wrong.you are loved.

you can choose to love yourself again, too.