There are moments when I sit in complete stillness and feel two truths tugging at opposite ends of me; the deep, grounding gratitude for everything I have, and the ache that never quite leaves. It’s strange how they coexist, how I can hold so much love and still feel this hollow ache inside me. People talk about healing like it’s a choice, like it’s something you can just decide to start doing and move forward from. But grief doesn’t ask for permission. It seeps into the quiet spaces, into the pauses between laughter and the sound of my child’s footsteps. It doesn’t need a reason to return, it just does.
I think a part of me will always grieve what could have been. The baby I never got to hold, the future I built in my mind, the small heartbeat that felt like hope. It’s a quiet grief, the kind that doesn’t scream but hums softly beneath everything else. I go about my days, doing what needs to be done, but there are moments that stop me cold: a smell, a lullaby, a date on the calendar that no one else remembers. It’s in those moments that I feel the duality most: the joy of what I still have and the sorrow for what I’ve lost. It’s not one replacing the other. They live together.
I’ve learned that people get uncomfortable when you hold both at once. Gratitude makes them smile, grief makes them shift in their seats. So I’ve learned to keep some of it tucked away, to say “I’m okay” because it makes things easier. But I don’t think grief ever really goes away; it just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it with grace, how to live without letting it define every breath. It changes you quietly, teaching you to see the world differently. To notice softness where you used to rush past. To find comfort in things you once took for granted.
Some days I feel guilty for feeling sad when I have so much to be thankful for. It feels wrong to cry when I can hear my child’s laughter in the next room. But then I remind myself, gratitude isn’t the opposite of grief. It’s what helps me live with it. I can be thankful for this life and still miss the one that never came to be. I can smile at what I have while mourning what I lost. It’s not weakness, it’s human. It’s the messy, complicated truth of loving deeply.
Sometimes, when I tuck my child into bed, I stare at them a little longer. I think about how lucky I am to love someone that much; to have this living, breathing reminder of how fiercely my heart can hold. But I also think about how fragile it all is, how quickly life can shift. That’s what grief teaches you, how to cherish and fear the same thing at once. How to love harder because you know how easily it can all disappear.
There’s a tenderness that comes after loss. It softens the edges of who you were. It makes you gentle in ways you never expected, but also stronger in ways you can’t quite explain. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop grieving, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe grief isn’t something to fix; maybe it’s something to live alongside.
I used to think healing meant letting go, but now I think it means learning to carry both, the gratitude that keeps me grounded and the grief that keeps me honest. They don’t cancel each other out; they make each other real. Because if I didn’t love as much as I did, I wouldn’t hurt this deeply. And maybe that’s the quiet beauty in all of it- that even in my pain, there’s proof that my heart is still capable of loving beyond reason.
-Honest
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