Grief Isn't What I thought It Was.

I'm in active recovery from a relationship, the closure of a business, medical trauma, and substance abuse.

I've begun my journey toward healing my wounds and healing the parts of my past, including childhood trauma. But I wasn't able to begin any of that work until I processed the grief.

I had to grieve first.

There comes a point in the grieving process when the deeper work can finally begin. You have to move through the raw shock and devastation—the devastation to your ego, your body, your identity, your sense of safety—before you can begin to face some of the deeper truths.

The path is the way.

During my grieving, I entered the NA program. I became a regular member at church. I sought out connection in the smallest forms. I began processing inner-child wounds through meditation and somatic movement.

I felt my vulnerability, and instead of running from it, I leaned in.

I leaned into the uncomfortable feeling of having my life stripped away and having to actually feel what that loss felt like.

The despair.

The isolation.

The obsessive thoughts.

The countless days of crying and pacing, trying to make sense of what had happened and who I was now.

I had to grieve the version of myself that was no longer serving me.

The self that was protecting me.

The self that had lived in survival for most of her life.

Not by choice.

By necessity.

By survival.

This was not easy. And it still isn't.

There have been so many complex ways my mind has protected me. Ways I didn't understand until I was finally still enough to see them.

I began dealing with whatever came up first.

Whatever made me feel sad, confused, scared, or angry—I leaned in.

I grieved the time I had lost in those cycles.

I grieved the girl who could no longer keep up.

The girl who was so tired.

The girl who had been hurting for so long.

And grief didn't always look the way I thought it would.

Sometimes it looked like warm baths and comfortable pajamas because I needed comfort.

Sometimes it looked like slowly walking barefoot through the grass.

It looked like lying in the sun, basking alone.

It looked like calling a friend and simply saying, I'm struggling today.

It looked like visiting my mother, who is gone from this lifetime, and telling her how much I understand now.

Telling her what I wish she had given me.

Telling her how angry I am.

And how sad I am.

Grief has taught me that letting go isn't simply deciding that something is over.

It's feeling the loss of it.

It's allowing yourself to acknowledge what it meant.

It's saying the things that were never said.

It's feeling the anger, the sadness, the longing, the confusion.

It's accepting that something can have mattered deeply to you and still need to end.

Letting go is hard.

It's lonely.

Grieving is the letting go.

It's the final goodbyes.

And sometimes, those goodbyes aren't just to another person.

Sometimes we're saying goodbye to a version of ourselves.

A version that protected us.

A version that helped us survive.

A version that got us here.

And then, eventually, we have to ask ourselves:

Who am I without her?

Maybe that's where healing begins.

Not when the grief disappears.

But when we stop fighting it long enough to listen to what it's trying to show us.

Have you been here?

Have you ever felt like you didn't know how to finally let go, even when you knew it was the best thing for you?

What did that feel like for you?

What did you have to grieve—not just about what you lost, but about who you were when you had it?