There’s a strange kind of grief that comes from realizing you can love someone, miss them deeply, and still feel hurt by the way they treated you.
I’ve been thinking a lot about family systems, performance, and what it means to protect your peace while grieving.
Sometimes people expect grief to look soft, warm, unified, and emotionally available. But for some of us, grief is complicated. It’s sitting at a memorial trying to honor someone while also carrying years of pain, silence, unmet needs, or survival mode.
I’m realizing I can honor my mom without sacrificing myself.
That sentence changed something in me.
I don’t think healing is pretending everything was beautiful. I think healing is telling the truth gently enough that your nervous system can finally unclench.
Some people have families that know how to hold vulnerability. Some of us learned how to survive being misunderstood, scapegoated, or treated like our needs were “too much.”
And still—we keep going.
Still—we try to build lives with softness in them.
Still—we search for community, safety, art, work, connection, and peace.
Right now I’m learning that boundaries can be quiet. Sometimes healing looks like:
showing up,
being respectful,
staying grounded,
and leaving when your body says it’s time.
Not every act of self-protection is cruelty.
Some of it is grief finally refusing to abandon itself.