There’s no right way to lose someone.
No map.
No timeline.
No sentence that makes the absence make sense.
They’re just… gone.
And you’re left standing in a world that keeps moving,
while yours has quietly shifted shape.
Grief isn’t loud.
It’s not always sobbing or breaking down.
Sometimes, it’s the quiet pause when their name crosses your mind.
Sometimes, it’s forgetting they’re gone for a second—then remembering all over again.
Grief isn’t something you get over.
It’s something you learn to walk with.
You build a new rhythm around the empty space.
You fold them into your mornings, your meals, your thoughts.
- In the song that still stings.
- In the object you keep meaning to move.
- In the way you speak, because they taught you how.
And some days, it hits harder than others.
A memory. A smell.
A moment you wish they could see.
But slowly…
without force…
you begin to carry them in peace instead of pain.
Not because it stops hurting.
But because love stays,
even when the form doesn’t.
You’re not broken for feeling this deeply.
You’re just human.
And they were worth the ache.
That’s the Cushy way.
