The tone of this blog has shifted since July. In all my musings, my ramblings, these writings from my heart—I have done nothing but strengthen the foundations of home. Not the kind with four walls and a roof, but the home I’ve raised within myself. The one that travels with me—through the good times and through grief.
I find comfort in organizing my thoughts and feelings through writing. I hardly know what I’m processing until I see it in words. But something I’ve avoided all these months is a proper acknowledgment of the grieving process. I’ve mentioned my grief, yes, but only in passing… and only with my shields thrown up.
The internet doesn’t need to know everything about your life, I told myself. And that much is true. But is that what stops me from writing about grief, or am I afraid I’ll feel it fully when it’s right in front of me? Hitting my screen with the force of a heart that is slowly mending?
Maybe I’m ready to do this, maybe not. Either way, it feels like a good time to try.
Are You There?
What I’m not going to do in this post is air anyone else’s laundry. Instead, I will preface this by saying that someone very close to me has been sick for over a year now. She is one of my best friends, and I love her like our souls have communed in multiple lifetimes. They probably have.
Way back in January, when the reality of what was happening became impossible to ignore, I begged her to seek help, and she refused. This continued until a couple of weeks ago, when a trip to the ER saved her life.
I wanted that hospital stay to cure her. All of her loved ones did. But this is the beginning of a longer path toward healing—and I can’t fix it for her.
How strange it is to see the most alive person you know confined to a hospital bed. How painful it is to miss someone so acutely, even when you’re in the same room.
I had my heart broken last October and honestly thought I would never recover.
But this loss—the simultaneous upending of my home and one of my most foundational relationships—has asked so much more of my spirit. It has called me into depths I simply did not want to swim and dragged me over mountains I hoped never to climb.
I am halfway through the stages of grief. Some days, I think I see a light at the end of the tunnel. And when I do, I hurl myself at it.
May I never take the light for granted again.
Doing Pretty Well
Most people begin the stages of grief with a dose of denial. With my history of hating change, I am aware that mine was heftier than normal.
The pain of facing this loss had me stumbling through every aspect of my life in a daze. Shocked and underprepared. For someone who repeats the serenity prayer to herself multiple times a day, acceptance was totally elusive—and I had no idea.
That’s the nature of denial, I suppose. I wrote blog posts like this to convince myself I was fine, doing pretty well, but under the surface? I can still recall the toxic fumes of chaos and heartbreak.
It’s so hard to describe this stage of grief because when it hits you, you’re practically the only one who can’t see it. And you can get adjustments and emotional clearings and beg the Universe for guidance, but you’re still doing it all blindly. Because you’re fine. Everything is fine.
Why wouldn’t you be fine?
Rage Room
One of my roommates asked me a few weeks ago if I wanted to do a rage room. I figured we would be going together. She clarified that maybe I should consider getting my own.
When I first arrived in Pennsylvania, I was so angry that if the wind blew the wrong way, I wanted to f***ing scream.
Loud noises coming from the kitchen? Annoyed. Not sleeping through the night? Frustrated. Cats crying for no discernible reason? Holy Mother of God, WHY?
Thoughts about the actual situation I’m grieving? Rage, rage, rage, rage, rage.
It felt absolutely bottomless, like if I started beating up my pillows or screaming in my car with all the windows rolled up, I would never stop. I would just find more things to smash or yell about or hurl against the wall.
So, since I was too afraid to try any of those things, I mostly did normal stuff—cooking, cleaning, working—with the attitude of a small, angry fairy. With a broken wing. And caffeine withdrawal.
In addition to this fiery stage of grief, I was also experiencing adrenal fatigue, so as angry as I was, I felt too tired to express it. Brief flashes of irritation and impatience were the best I could muster, which likely contributed to the sensation that the depths of my rage were infinite and unknown.
Even here, I did not know I was grieving in terms of stages or steps. All I knew was that I was far from home and deeply unhappy about it.
Let’s Make a Deal
The interesting thing about me and bargaining is that I grew up practicing it.
If I can walk all the way home without stepping on any cracks in the sidewalk, I’ll live till I’m 100.
And who can say? Maybe we all do some version of this as children, grasping for control of a world that feels so vast and unknowable. But when it comes to grieving as an adult, I would’ve expected to be ultra-aware of my inner world and thought process.
If you read last month’s post, then you know that’s not exactly how it went down.
Bargaining in this space felt a lot like anger and nostalgia rolled into one. I had (and continue to have) momentary recollections of random scenes from my childhood, both waking and dreaming. When I returned to myself, I felt like I lost something. My joy or maybe my whole heart.
It’s fascinating and terrible that in the midst of great loss, we cope by reminding ourselves of what else is gone. Other things we can’t get back. All the ways we’ve changed.
Which leads us to wonder… what the hell is the point of all this anyway?
Nothing, Thanks
The essence of my current stage of grief can be summed up in a word: mortality.
I look around public places—and even my own apartment, when I’m there—and it’s like stumbling across the 1001st way to die. Everything is toxic. Anyone can put whatever they want in your food and sell it to you without warning. You’re breathing dust and wearing shoes inside and storing your leftovers in plastic and it’s all. bloody. deadly.
I did not recognize my own grief until it led me here.
But for the love of all things holy, I cannot live like that! I feel like Alexandra Rover, lining up my hand sanitizer and warming up soup from a can. Except I’m doing neither of those things. Most days, I don’t feel like doing anything.
*laughs in depression*
My sense of humor has gotten darker, I think, but I smile at cheesy TV shows in a way I never did before. I’m on a stringent entertainment diet—exclusively Bake Off, Derry Girls, and Never Have I Ever. Can people tell you’re grieving by the way you laugh?
The Gifts of Staying
Some days, I feel like I’m making progress, like I’m hitting the upward turn. On other days, I feel like I’m treading water. When the latter makes me want to nap until things are different, I try to remember something I learned in a guided meditation last week.
“What are you?” I was asked.
“I just got this mental image of a whole bunch of stars,” I replied.
Laughter—and not the depressed kind. “Can you imagine if someone asked you what you are and you said, ‘I’m a whole bunch of stars’?”
When he inquired, I explained to my guide that I equate stars with infinite space. Deep down, I do believe we are infinite, no matter how mortal I may feel in these moments. There is an awareness—an abiding presence—all around this body, and it is deathless.
So, even here, where nothing feels quite right, I can lean into self-trust and intuition. Even here, my inner guidance is not leading me astray.
Where there is life, there is hope.
Where there is life, there is hope.
And there is life here.
Please hug your loved ones this weekend and express how much they mean to you. Send them prayers and positive thoughts until you fall asleep. Thank you for being with me on this journey. x
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