On Grief's Shore.

Someone on here asked me if I’ve ever experienced something that made me truly understand how powerful grief can be, and I thought—what an amazing question. I have to write about it.

So, to answer their question: Yes. I have.

And I’ve realized that, as cliché as it may sound, grief really is like the ocean.

You can walk easily along the sand at the edge of the water, and the grief will hit you gently sometimes. You’ll be able to navigate it, steady yourself before you fall. But then there are times when the waves come crashing in before you can even move—your feet stuck in the sand as they hit you. You're taken under, and no matter how hard you kick or swim, it seems like you’ll never reach the surface.

It’s in those moments—when you’re under the waves—that you truly understand how powerful the ocean is. You can stand on the shore and watch the waves move gently, but it's only when you're consumed by them that you realize the calm is an illusion. Grief is like that. It may seem distant or gentle from afar, but the moment it takes over, you're fully aware of its raw, devastating power.

You become hyper-aware of the air in your lungs, how hard it is to breathe, how you can’t get your footing. Over and over, the waves knock you around. Your body is beaten by the weight of the water—just as your being is beaten by the weight of grief.

You may resurface, gasping for air, grateful to breathe again. You may reach the shore, but your feet struggle to find balance. It takes time to walk steadily again. Eventually, you’ll get there—walking along the sand with ease, the water gently kissing your ankles. But deep down, you know the ocean could pull you back under at any moment. Grief will float beneath the surface like a water-bound ghost, following you, waiting to force you to feel everything you’ve tried so hard to bury.

So when the sun shines, sit in the sand. Let its warmth glow on your skin. Let the heat wrap around you like a blanket. Soak in the happiness you feel. Let yourself be lit aflame with joy.

It’s strange how the warmth of happiness—the scorching burn of the sun—feels far better than the cool pull of the water. The ocean kisses your skin with bitter shades of blue and green while the black and gray of your grief spiral around you like an underwater storm.

So yes, I know how powerful grief is. But I also know I’ll never truly understand it. I don’t think any of us ever will.

We just do the best we can with what we have. Whether we walk the shore of grief alone or with someone holding our hand, grief will always treat us differently. It will pull some of us under and leave us struggling. Others will somehow float. Some have found a way to stay above the tide—at least for now.

But true understanding of grief? It’s like trying to hold sand in your hand. No matter how tightly you grasp it, it slips through your fingers.

There are days I can walk along the shore as grief brushes my ankles like a soft wave. I know it’s there. I feel it, but I keep walking.

And then there are days when those same gentle waves are just the beginning of a larger one—one that pulls me under, and I nearly drown in the depth of it. It’s overwhelming. All-consuming. I feel like I’ll never escape it.

But through all of it—whether I’m walking the shoreline or being dragged under—I have a life preserver.

The ones I love surround me like the strongest life jacket, always keeping me afloat, even if my head dips below the surface. They're always there, making sure my grief doesn’t swallow me whole. And when I finally resurface and make it back to the shore, they’re still there—waiting for me.

And I know they always will be, in whatever form.

So even though grief is more powerful than we’ll ever truly understand, the love I carry for those I’ve lost—and the memory of them—is far more powerful than the wave.