What They Didn't Understand About My Grief

There was a time when people would tell me, "You're different," and every time they said it, I felt offended.

Of course I was different.

My dad had been murdered. My heart was shattered. Some days I was barely making it out of bed. Then came the loss of my grandma, my mom's health challenges, career transitions, friendships ending, and so many other moments that seemed determined to pull me apart piece by piece.

I wanted people to stop pointing out the obvious.

I was grieving.

I was hurting.

I was trying to survive.

For a long time, I thought healing meant finding my way back to who I used to be. I kept looking for the old version of myself, hoping she would return if I just gave it enough time.

But grief doesn't return us to who we were.

It changes us.

And as I sit with that truth now, I realize not all of those changes have been bad.

These days, I find myself more present in my body. I listen when it tells me to slow down. I trust it when it tells me something isn't right. I am rebuilding trust with myself, learning to be guided by my wants, needs, and desires instead of constantly abandoning them for everyone else's comfort.

Grief changed what I have capacity for.

Consideration, compassion, empathy, and reciprocity are no longer optional for me. If we're doing life together, those things matter. Deeply.

I simply cannot give to everyone the way I once did, especially not at the expense of myself.

The woman I used to be would bend until she broke.

The woman I am becoming knows what it costs to lose herself and refuses to pay that price again.

I am much quieter now.

Not because I have nothing to say, but because silence and stillness have become places of refuge.

I find comfort there.

I find God there.

I find myself there.

My circle is smaller these days. Sometimes it even feels foreign compared to what it once was. But I no longer feel the need to keep people close simply because they've always been there. I have no desire to be around those I'm unsure of. Life has made me protective of my peace.

And honestly, I don't apologize for that anymore.

The woman who emerged from the ashes is direct in her communication.

Soft, but fierce.

Gentle, but witty.

Compassionate, but no longer willing to carry what doesn't belong to her.

She has walked away from jobs, friendships, and even family dynamics that cost her too much of herself.

Not because she didn't care.

Because she finally does.

Because somewhere along the way she learned that loving others should never require abandoning herself.

These days, I think one of the most beautiful things about my life is that I have become my own safe place.

I am slowly returning to community.

I am eating well.

Traveling more.

Laughing more.

Living more.

The things closest to my heart have become more private, more sacred. Not everything needs to be shared. Not everything needs to be explained.

Some things are meant to be protected while they grow.

And maybe that's another gift grief gave me.

Discernment.

The ability to know what belongs to everyone and what belongs only to me and God.

Joy looks different now, too.

It isn't found in big milestones or constant movement.

It's found in the little things.

Meeting up with the girls.

Discovering a new tea shop.

Journaling by the lake.

Lighting candles at home.

Playing my vinyl records.

Fresh flowers on the table.

Slow Saturday mornings in my robe with a cup of tea.

Aimlessly wandering through bookstores, farmers markets, and places I've never been before.

Taking true care of me.

The most surprising part of all of this is that I still have hard days.

I still cry uncontrollably sometimes.

I still have days when getting out of bed feels impossible.

But now I honor those moments instead of shaming myself for them.

I no longer treat my grief like an enemy.

I let it sit beside me until it passes.

Because grief is not proof that I'm broken. It's proof that I loved deeply. And perhaps the greatest realization of all is this:

The woman who emerged from the ashes is currently living in everything I prayed for and more.

Not every prayer looked the way I imagined. Not every blessing arrived wrapped in ease. But somehow, while I was surviving, life was still unfolding. God was still moving. Healing was still happening.

The woman who was afraid to disappoint people learned to stand up for herself.

The woman who searched for safety in others became her own safe place.

The woman who constantly poured from an empty cup learned that rest is holy.

The woman who doubted herself learned to trust her own voice.

The woman who kept waiting for permission learned she never needed it.

I am not who I was before grief.

I am not who I was before loss.

I am not who I was before heartbreak.

And for the first time, I am no longer trying to become her again.

Instead, I am getting to know the woman who remained.

The woman who survived.

The woman who softened without surrendering herself.

The woman who carries both grief and joy.

The woman who still has becoming left to do.

And for once, I am not rushing her.

I am simply witnessing her life as it is.

And it is beautiful.