Grief is weird.
I almost didn’t share this. It feels vulnerable. It’s not upbeat or perfectly tied together. It’s just a collection of thoughts that don’t really have a place to go—but maybe that’s exactly what grief is.
It’s been almost a year since we lost my grandma. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: grief doesn’t go away. It doesn’t shrink. It doesn’t fade into something smaller. It just… stays. Some days feel lighter than others, but it’s always there in the background.
Grief is strange because it starts with love. You have someone in your life—a parent, grandparent, friend, or even a pet—who feels permanent. Like they’re just part of your world forever. So the idea of losing them doesn’t even make sense.
And then it happens.
And nothing about it makes sense after that either.
Grief is confusing because you feel everything at once. You’re sad, you’re angry, you’re grateful, and sometimes you even feel peace knowing they aren’t suffering. It’s a mix of emotions that don’t usually exist together—but somehow, they do here.
What makes grief even harder is that it has nowhere to go.
Most emotions are tied to something you can face. If you’re angry, you talk it out. If you’re stressed, you fix the problem. But grief doesn’t work like that. It’s tied to someone who is no longer here. There’s no resolution. No conversation. No way to “fix” it.
It just exists.
The day we lost my grandma was one of the hardest days of my life. It felt like a piece of me was taken, and at the same time, the rest of the world kept moving. People were laughing, going about their day like nothing happened. And all I could think was, how?
That’s one of the loneliest parts of grief. The world doesn’t stop—but yours does, even if just for a moment.
Recently, we sold my grandma’s house. It took almost a year, and I wasn’t ready. I don’t think I ever would have been.
It felt like losing her all over again.
Even though she wasn’t there anymore, it was still hers. It held pieces of her. The smell of her cooking, the holidays, the quiet moments, the memories of her and my grandpa together. Letting it go felt like losing something I couldn’t get back.
But grief also changes how you see things—if you let it.
At some point, I realized something important. The house wasn’t her. She’s not tied to a place. What made that house special was her presence, her love, and the life she created inside it.
And that doesn’t disappear.
Those memories don’t go anywhere. The feelings don’t leave. And the love? That definitely doesn’t fade.
If anything, it continues—just in a different way.
Now, someone else will live in that house. They’ll build their own memories. They’ll celebrate holidays, go through hard days, and create a life there. And in a way, I like to think the love that once filled that home doesn’t just vanish—it carries on.
Grief is weird, but it also teaches you something.
It teaches you how deeply you can love. It shows you what truly matters. And it reminds you that the people we lose don’t really leave us—we carry them in everything we do.
The only way to move forward isn’t to “get over” grief. It’s to accept it. To make peace with it. To be thankful for the time you had—and to know, deep down, that you did all you could while they were here. That you visited, shared meals, asked questions, and made memories that now mean everything.
And maybe most importantly—it’s a reminder.
A reminder to call your people. To spend more time with them. To say the things you’re thinking instead of waiting. To show up, even when life gets busy.
Because time isn’t guaranteed.
It’s easy to see grief as all sadness. As something heavy and unfair.
But if you take a step back, it’s also proof of something beautiful.
It means you got to experience a kind of love that doesn’t just disappear.
A kind of love that stays—even after everything else is gone.
And not everyone gets that.
In a way, that makes you lucky.
Even in the darkest moments, there is always something to hold onto. A memory. A lesson. A piece of love that refuses to leave.
And maybe that’s the light.
So if you’re grieving, just know this—you’re not doing it wrong. There is no right way. It’s messy, it’s confusing, and it’s deeply personal.
But it also means you loved deeply.
And that’s something worth holding onto.