There’s a heaviness that sits in my chest, one that no deep breath seems to ease. It’s the kind that lingers even on the best days, hiding behind laughter and the smell of dinner cooking. People say grief softens with time, that pain dulls and hearts learn how to move forward. Maybe they’re right for some but right now, I can’t feel that. Right now, everything feels jagged and unfinished. I’m angry, and I’m tired, and I’m trying to understand how to hold all of that at once without feeling like I’m breaking.
I lost a pregnancy just a few months ago, and the world hasn’t stopped spinning. Bills still need to be paid. Dishes still pile up. My child still needs me to show up and smile and laugh and make life feel normal. And yet, there are moments when I can barely look at myself in the mirror because I feel like I failed at something so sacred, so natural. People don’t see that part, they see the strength, the “you’re so resilient,” the “you’ll try again.” But what they don’t see is the silence that follows. The kind that echoes. The kind that makes you wonder if maybe you weren’t meant to have it all.
Sometimes I feel like I’m not allowed to sit in that grief for too long. Like I’m supposed to just bounce back, because life keeps moving whether I can or not. But the truth is, I’m still in it. I wake up every morning with a mix of gratitude and fury in my chest. I’m thankful for what I have: my child, my partner, my life, but it doesn’t erase the ache. Both can coexist. Thankfulness doesn’t make the pain smaller; it just gives it a place to live. And that’s what no one really tells you.. how you can be both grateful and gutted at the same time.
There are days when I feel misunderstood in my marriage. Like my grief and emotions are something to be tolerated instead of felt alongside me. I know my partner means well, but I can’t always explain this heaviness, and sometimes silence feels safer than trying. I’ve learned to swallow words that burn, to cry in the shower where the water can drown out the sound. I’ve learned to smile so my child doesn’t worry, to say, “Mommy’s okay,” even when I’m not. It’s strange how motherhood can be so full and so lonely all at once. My child once told me they heard me crying, and my heart cracked open because I realized no matter how much I try to protect them, they still see me, the real me. And part of me hopes they do, because I want them to know that it’s okay to feel deeply. That pain isn’t something to hide from, even if the world tells you to.
There are moments I question everything: my choices, my worth, my purpose. My past trauma still knocks at the door when I least expect it, dragging up memories I wish I could bury for good. It tells me I’m made for suffering, that peace is something meant for other people. But I keep trying. I try to forgive myself for what I couldn’t control, for what I didn’t know then. Healing isn’t a straight line, it’s a storm that comes and goes without warning. Some days I survive it. Some days I drown in it. But every day, I still show up.
I think what hurts the most is feeling like I’m carrying everything: motherhood, grief, the weight of being the one who keeps the world spinning. The default parent, the emotional anchor, the fixer. If I don’t cook, who will? If I don’t clean, who notices? When I try to step back, the house reminds me that I can’t. My child’s questions remind me that I can’t. And even though I love being a mother more than anything, it’s okay to admit that sometimes love feels heavy too. It’s okay to feel the burn of exhaustion and still call it devotion. It’s okay to be both the storm and the calm that follows.
Maybe that’s what this season is teaching me, that it’s not about bouncing back, but about learning to exist inside the heaviness without letting it swallow me whole. Maybe grief doesn’t leave; maybe it just changes shape. Maybe pain is just proof that I loved something deeply enough to miss it this much. And even though I feel angry, and lost, and unbearably tired, I still have this fire in me. A small, steady flame that refuses to go out, even when everything else feels dark.
I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t know when this ache will lift. But I do know this: I’m still here. I’m still breathing. I’m still feeling. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.
-Honest
Actually, I'm not fine... blog 