Grief does not knock politely.

It kicks in the door, drops its bags on the couch, and announces it will be staying “for a while.” How long is “a while”? Grief refuses to clarify. It also refuses to leave when you politely hint that you have plans.

For me, grief arrived fully unpacked on December 19, the day my wife died. Since then, it has followed me everywhere sometimes quietly, sometimes like it’s wearing combat boots indoors.

The Shape-Shifting Nature of Grief

Grief is not just sadness. If it were, we could schedule it between laundry and lunch.

Instead, grief is a shape-shifter. One moment it’s a crushing ache in your chest; the next it’s standing in the kitchen wondering why you opened the refrigerator, again. Sometimes it disguises itself as exhaustion. Sometimes it shows up as anger over something deeply important, like the way a stranger parks their car.

And then there are the sneak attacks. You’ll be doing okay actually okay and suddenly a song, a smell, or a memory you didn’t invite takes you out at the knees.

Why does the grocery store feel emotionally dangerous now? No one knows. Science has failed us.

The Weird Things People Say (They Mean Well, Mostly)

Grief also comes with a supporting cast of kind, well-meaning humans who say things like:

• “She’s in a better place.”
• “Everything happens for a reason.”
• “At least you had good years together.”

These words are usually offered with love and panic. People want to help, but grief makes everyone uncomfortable, so they try to patch a shattered heart with sentences.

Here’s the truth: grief is not fixable. It’s survivable, livable, and eventually carry-able but not fixable. And that’s okay.

If someone doesn’t know what to say, silence and snacks remain the gold standard.

Grief and Time: A Complicated Relationship

People love to say, “Time heals all wounds.”

This is… ambitious.

Time doesn’t heal grief so much as it teaches you how to live alongside it without tripping over it constantly. In the beginning, grief is loud and relentless. Over time, it softens—not because the loss mattered less, but because you grow stronger around it.

Grief is like a backpack you didn’t pack yourself. At first, it feels impossible to carry. Eventually, you adjust the straps. Some days it’s manageable. Some days you’re convinced someone secretly added bricks.

Laughter Is Not Betrayal

Here’s something important: laughing does not mean you’ve forgotten. Smiling does not mean you’re “over it.” Finding humor does not mean your love was shallow.

Grief and laughter can exist in the same space. Sometimes humor slips in not because things are funny, but because your soul needs a breath.

You may laugh at something wildly inappropriate. You may crack a joke and immediately feel confused by your own emotions. You may laugh so hard you cry, which feels unhinged but is actually very on-brand for grief.

This does not make you heartless. It makes you human.

You Are Not Doing This Wrong

There is no correct timeline.
There is no universal checklist.
There is no prize for “handling it well.”

If you’re crying every day, you’re not weak.
If you’re functioning suspiciously well, you’re not cold.
If you’re exhausted from being “strong,” congratulations—you’re honest.

Grief looks different on everyone. Comparing grief is pointless. Pain is pain, even when it wears different shoes.

The Quiet Truth

Grief changes you. That part is unavoidable.

But it does not erase you.
It does not mean your best days are behind you.
It does not mean joy won’t find you again—sometimes softly, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes while buying cereal you don’t even like.

Grief is love that didn’t disappear. It just lost its place to land.

And while I will never be grateful for the loss of my wife, I am learning—slowly, unevenly—that I am still here. Breathing. Remembering. Laughing when I didn’t expect to. Carrying sorrow and love at the same time.

It’s messy.
It’s heavy.
It’s mine.

And somehow, it’s still life.