5th May, 2025
Grief doesn’t come with a calendar. No timeline. No rulebook. It doesn’t show up gently or wait for a convenient time. It barges into your life, changes the air around you, and refuses to leave. I learned that the hard way last year, when I lost my dad. Even now, it feels strange to say those words out loud. He’s gone.
And yet, the world didn’t stop. Not for a moment. I didn’t get the space to catch my breath, to break down, or to scream into the void, What now? Life just… kept going. School deadlines, obligations, noise. People moved on, and I was expected to move with them. But inside, I felt like I had paused.
I was drained in every way—mentally, emotionally, and physically. I wanted solitude, silence, space. I didn’t want to explain myself. Didn’t have the words even if I did. But instead of space, I put on a brave face.
Every single day, I showed up. Smiled when I needed to. Replied messages. Showed up to class. Had surface-level conversations that felt disconnected from my reality. I was present, but I wasn’t really there. Surrounded by people, but still completely alone. I didn’t want to talk about it, but at the same time, I desperately wanted someone to see me. To see through the brave and ask if I was okay.
Simple tasks became mountains. Things that once took me minutes suddenly felt impossible. My mind was foggy, like I was walking through water. I’d forget basic things, lose track of time, stare at my to-do list like it was written in another language. Some days, I couldn’t feel anything. Other days, I felt everything at once.
Still, I moved. Not because I wanted to. Not because I was ready. But because I had to.
People talk about “moving on,” like it’s something you decide to do one morning and then it just happens. But how do you move on from someone who helped build you? How do you move forward when part of your foundation is gone?
The truth is, I didn’t move on. I carried it. I still do.
For months, I was in denial. I said all the right things: “He’s in a better place,” “He lived a good life, ” “God gives and takes.” But those words started to sound hollow. They weren’t comforting anymore. They were just masks—things I said so people wouldn’t worry, so I wouldn’t fall apart mid-sentence. But behind them, I was surviving. Just barely.
Sometimes, I still pretend he’s away. Maybe at work. Maybe on a trip. Maybe, if I dialed his number, he’d pick up. Grief has this cruel way of making you bargain with reality—even when you know the truth. And even though I know he’s gone, sometimes I choose to forget. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.
In all of that heaviness, in the silence, God was there. I didn’t have the strength for deep prayers. Most days, all I could whisper was, “God, please.” And that was enough. He didn’t shout answers from the heavens. He just sat with me. Quietly. Consistently.
One verse became my lifeline:
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.”
— Isaiah 43:2 (NIV)
It didn’t promise I wouldn’t face fire or deep waters. It promised I wouldn’t drown. I wouldn’t be consumed. That kept me grounded.
God didn’t remove the pain. He held space for it. And slowly, I’ve started to understand that healing isn’t about erasing grief or pretending I’m fine. It’s about letting each day be what it is. It’s about crying when I need to. Laughing without guilt. Holding his memory in a way that feels lighter.
Last year broke me. No sugar coating that. But it also opened me—forced me to grow in ways I didn’t choose. I’m grateful for the people who didn’t rush my process. Who let me feel what I needed to feel. Who showed up without expecting explanations.
Grief has shaped me. It’s softened some parts, hardened others. It’s taught me that being strong doesn’t always look like boldness. Sometimes it looks like choosing to live. Choosing to hope.
I’m still healing. I don’t have neat answers or tidy endings. Some days, I still cry. Some days, I still feel numb. But I no longer shame myself for that. I’ve learned to take life one day at a time. To breathe. To be honest. And to trust that I am never alone in this.
If you’re grieving too—whether it’s been days or decades—please hear this: You don’t need to have it all figured out. You don’t have to “get over it.” You’re allowed to feel. To fall apart. To get back up. Healing takes time. But with God, it’s possible.
One breath. One moment. One day at a time.
Hi friends, thank you for reading. Grief has a way of lingering in the quiet spaces of our lives, where words often fail but feelings remain. This is a space for those unspoken emotions—for honesty, softness, and slow healing. Let’s keep navigating this journey together, gently and one day at a time.
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