Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Chapter 8: Drowning

I feel it every day, even in the small moments that should be ordinary. It is not just sadness. It is a weight, a pressure, a flood that fills every inch of me until I am certain I will never resurface.

There are mornings when I wake and the first thought is not hope, not love, not possibility, but an overwhelming heaviness. My chest feels tight, my stomach turns, and even the act of breathing seems monumental. The world moves around me, people go about their lives, and I am trapped beneath waves of sorrow that I cannot control. I feel submerged, invisible, suffocating, as if the water is too deep and I cannot find the surface.

Sometimes grief hits like a sudden surge. A sound, a smell, a fleeting memory becomes a trigger, and the waves rise without warning. A baby’s cry in the distance, a soft lullaby on the radio, a parent laughing with a child in the park. The sorrow arrives fully formed, complete with images of what could have been, what should have been, what will never be. And I am left gasping for air, reaching for something solid to cling to, anything that will keep me from drowning entirely in the emptiness.

Even in solitude, I feel it. The quiet moments are the hardest. When the world goes silent and I am left alone with my thoughts, the sorrow intensifies. I imagine my baby, alive in memory, and the ache becomes unbearable. The tiny life I longed for, the one I dreamed about and held in my heart long before it existed in the world, is gone. I cannot see them, I cannot touch them, I cannot hear them. And the absence stretches endlessly before me, a horizon of emptiness that refuses to fade.

Drowning in sorrow is not just emotional. It is physical. My body aches with it, my muscles tense, my heart pounds. Tears stream without warning, a relentless tide that no tissue can hold. I try to eat, to drink, to function, but every motion is slowed by the weight pressing down on me. I want to cry out, to scream, to release the pressure, but even sound feels insufficient. My sorrow is too vast for words, too deep for explanation.

I feel the world’s indifference in these moments. Life continues. Babies are born. Families celebrate. Friends post pictures of children growing. Advertisements promise joy and innocence. Every reminder of life and continuation is a wave that pushes me further beneath the surface. I want to swim toward it, toward the hope it represents, but the water is too heavy, the current too strong. I feel caught in a relentless undercurrent of longing, unable to reach the shore.

And yet, even in the depths, there is love. It is love that keeps me tethered, that prevents me from being lost entirely. The love I had for my baby, the love I share with my husband, the love that created this life and continues to define me, is a lifeline. It is a thread, fragile but unbroken, that I can hold onto when every other part of me feels submerged. It reminds me that even drowning, even in overwhelming sorrow, I am not alone.

Grief in its fullness is terrifying. It is isolation and connection simultaneously. It is despair and remembrance intertwined. It is longing so intense it feels like it could swallow me whole. And yet, it is also a measure of love. The deeper the sorrow, the more profound the devotion. Every wave, every current, every tide of grief is proof that I loved fiercely, completely, and without reservation. The drowning is the price of that love, as unbearable as it is necessary.

Some days, I feel like I will never surface. I feel as though the weight of absence will crush me entirely, that I will be lost to the tide forever. But then, in small moments, I find air. A glance from my husband. A shared memory of what we lost. A quiet acknowledgment that our grief is real, that it is valid, that it matters. These moments are the lifeboats, the surfaces I grasp in order to breathe again. They do not erase the sorrow, but they allow me to exist within it without being consumed entirely.

I have learned that drowning in sorrow is not about defeat. It is about endurance. It is about surviving when every part of you wants to give in. It is about feeling the depth of loss while still holding onto the fragments of hope that remain. It is about allowing yourself to grieve fully, to feel the intensity of absence, to honor the love that created it, and to recognize that even submerged, you are alive, you are capable of breathing, you are capable of love.

And so I float in the waves, sometimes struggling, sometimes gasping, sometimes sinking deeper than I imagined possible. But I continue. I reach for the thread of love that persists. I reach for the hope that flickers beneath the weight. I reach for the memory of my baby, the devotion that created them, the bond that continues to define me. And in that reaching, I find the strength to endure, to breathe, to keep moving, to carry the sorrow without losing myself entirely.

Drowning in sorrow is a lesson I never wanted to learn. It is a reality I cannot escape. But it is also a testament. It is proof of love, of hope, of the depth of devotion that exists even in absence. It is evidence that my heart, though broken, is resilient. That my soul, though heavy, is capable of enduring. That my love, though tested by loss, remains unshakable.

And so, I surface, again and again, each breath a victory, each heartbeat a reminder that I am alive, that I have loved, that I can continue to carry my baby in memory and heart, even as the waves of sorrow crash around me.