Between Bruises and Blooms

They say

everybody grieves differently.

They whisper it
like it’s comfort,

like those four words
can soften
the edges of loss.

Maybe they’re right.

But what they never tell you

is that grief

doesn’t even grieve
the same way twice.

I’ve buried people.

I’ve buried animals.

I’ve buried dreams.

I’ve buried the future
I thought I was going to have.

Every goodbye

has carved me

a little differently.

People see me smile

and think

I’ve made peace with it.

They watch me laugh.

Watch me hold babies.

Watch me play with my son.

And they mistake

survival

for healing.

They don’t hear

the screaming

that lives beneath

my ribs.

They don’t know

that joy and grief

have learned

to share the same body.

When someone asks,

“How are you?”

I can’t say

“I’m good.”

Because I’m not.

I can’t say

“I’m falling apart.”

Because that’s not true either.

So I tell them

the only honest thing

I know.

“I’m surviving.”

Because surviving

is what life becomes

when someone you love

is missing.

There is no “getting over”

a daughter.

There is only

learning

how to carry

the empty space

where she should be.

Tonight,

I came home,

ran a bath,

called my dad,

and for a little while

everything felt…

manageable.

Then I sat

on the edge of my bed.

I looked

toward the place

where her bassinet

should have been.

And the dam broke.

Not quiet tears.

Not polite tears.

The kind

that steal your breath.

That soak your pillow.

That leave your shirt

clinging to your skin.

The kind

that shake

every bone

until your whole body

becomes grief.

That’s the thing

about mourning.

It doesn’t knock.

It doesn’t wait

until you’re ready.

It finds you

in ordinary moments—

an empty corner,

an untouched crib,

a lullaby,

a tiny pair of socks—

and suddenly

you’re drowning

in memories

that never had

the chance

to become moments.

People search

for stages.

For timelines.

For an end.

But grief

isn’t a destination.

It’s a heartbeat

that echoes

beside your own.

Proof

that someone

was loved enough

to leave

this kind of silence.

So when it comes,

don’t fight

every wave.

Just breathe.

In.

Out.

Again.

Because surviving

is enough

for today.

And sometimes,

breathing

is the bravest thing

a broken heart

will ever do.