07/01/2025
Not the kind of lonely where you miss a call or spend a night alone. It’s the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been dropped into another world—one where no one speaks your language, and everything familiar has gone quiet. You can be surrounded by people, even people who love you, and still feel completely unseen.
Grief is lonelier than you ever imagined. Because no one else lost your person. No one else carries the exact story, the exact moment, the exact ache that you do. People try to understand—they really do—but most don’t know what to say. So they say nothing. Or they change the subject. Or worse, they disappear altogether.
The silence can feel unbearable. And in that silence, you start to wonder if your pain even matters to anyone anymore. Does anyone see how heavy it is? Does anyone notice how much effort it takes just to get through each day?
So I want to say this clearly:
I see you.
I see your pain. I see your exhaustion. I see the way you carry it all while the world keeps spinning as though nothing happened. You’re not imagining how hard this is—it is hard. Devastatingly so.
There’s a whole silent, aching circle of us—grieving parents, grieving children, grieving humans—sitting in that same space. We may not talk about it often, but we’re here. Quiet, hurting, and holding space for each other the best we can.
You may feel like you're the only one. But you're not. You're one of us. And even if we never meet, even if we never speak, you’re not alone.
Because here’s the truth:
Grief connects us in ways words cannot. It ties us together silently, invisibly, profoundly. We may walk different paths, but we share the same weight.
And that means something.