How to Avoid Grief

Walk at night.
Let the dark carry you.

When a thought begins with what if or I miss,
choose something loud.
Something that doesn’t ask questions.
Something that keeps you on solid ground.

Do not listen for meaning.
Listen for containment.

Sound is a wall.
A boundary between you and your mind.
You cannot control what enters your head,
but you can decide what reaches your ears.

Noise is a kind of shelter.
Turn the music up until your ribs vibrate.
If the lyrics get too close, drown them out.

Interrupt it with pavement,
with breath,
with distance.

Keep moving.
A body in motion is harder to break.
Pain you choose is easier to hold.

Something had to absorb the force.
The wall is faster.
Control was re-established.
The moment already passed.

Pick up extra hours.
Say yes before anyone finishes asking.
Exhaustion is quieter than memory.

Make yourself useful.

When someone else is bleeding, run to them.
Solve their chaos.
Bandage their wounds.
Call it purpose.

Anything beats standing still in your own wreckage.

If a wave rises—
that pressure behind the eyes,
that pull in the chest—
step a few inches above your body.
Watch yourself from the ceiling.

This is called coping.
This is called survival.

Do not open the drawer with the photos.
Do not linger in rooms that remember.
Do not say the name out loud.

Names are doors.

Breathe shallow.
Laugh when expected.
Answer fine like it is a prayer.

You cannot afford to fall apart.
Not even a little.

So you become a hallway—
something everything passes through,
nothing stays.

If you succeed,
the days will keep happening.
You will keep functioning.
You will keep living.

And one day, in a quiet moment,
you will realize

you have become very good

at not being here.