The Weight of Absence
Grief is overwhelming. I know that might sound obvious, and maybe it’s a strange way to start a blog post, but—well—here we are.
I’ve been navigating a loss lately, though “navigating” feels like the wrong word. It’s more like bursting into tears whenever they cross my mind. It’s a lot. The grief comes in waves, crashing over me at the most unexpected moments: walking outside on a beautiful day with my dog, sitting at my desk coding spreadsheets, or even catching a glimpse of someone who vaguely resembles them on the street or in a video. It feels like I’m standing in front of a massive door, desperately trying to hold it shut against a flood. I feel so small, so powerless.
The world feels forever changed by their absence. It’s not just the external world that feels unfamiliar—it’s me, too. My body feels foreign, my skin uncomfortable. Who am I now? What has grief done to me? My clothes don’t fit right, my reflection looks off. It’s like I’m someone else’s idea of who I should be—a distorted photograph of someone else’s memories. Who is she? Why does her face look like that? Are these pants even mine? I wore them a month ago, and now they feel like someone else’s constricting hand-me-downs.
I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. Writing has always been my way of processing things. I tell stories. I write. But even that feels broken right now. There’s a novel, a story dear to my heart, that’s been playing in the back of my mind since August. It wants to come to life on the page, but I’m frozen. I stare at a blank screen, unsure of what word should come first—or next.
The only thing that brings me any solace is books. Isn’t that ironic? The story inside me refuses to budge, but I find relief in escaping into other people’s stories. This year, I’ve read 12 novels, and we’re not even three months in. It’s a feat I haven’t accomplished since I was a teenager. But that’s the problem. Do you see it? My teenage years were awful. I was sad, lonely, uncomfortable in my own skin, and desperate for an escape. I disappeared into books, staying up all night to immerse myself, no matter the cost—my exhaustion, my falling grades, my strained relationships with my family.
Wouldn’t it be nice to wring myself through the wash, pin me on a clothesline, and let me wave in the breeze until I’m ready to come back? To feel the sun warm my skin, the salt air in my hair.
Fresh. Warm. New.
Do you think falling in love changes you? I wonder if that’s the difference this time. I’ve lost people I loved before, and I didn’t love this person more than them—definitely not—but this loss feels different. Before, it was like a rock chipping away at my core, never fully breaking through. Now, after two years of being in love, my heart is on my sleeve. No armor, no stone shell—just raw, exposed, and breathing. Love opened me up, and now grief pierces through in slow, deep, deliberate strokes. I’m bleeding out, and I need someone to hold me together. I’m sorry for the blood on the floor—give me a minute, and I’ll clean it up.
Does loss feel sharper when you know what love feels like? I don’t know. And honestly, I’m tired of asking myself questions.
