Guilt arrives early,
before I’m fully awake.
It sits on the edge of my bed,
legs swinging,
tapping its watch.
“You’re still sad?” it whispers.
“It’s been so long.
People are tired of hearing about it.
Pull yourself together.”
It follows me to the mirror,
points at the circles under my eyes.
“Look at you.
You’re too much for everyone.
No wonder they’ve stopped asking.”
In the supermarket,
Guilt rides in the trolley,
commenting on every ache.
“Don’t cry here.
You’ll make people uncomfortable.
Save it for when you’re alone.”
At night,
when the house is finally quiet,
Guilt curls up on my chest
and counts all the ways
I’m not healing fast enough.
Compassion does not argue.
It waits in the doorway,
soft and patient,
holding a blanket and a glass of water.
When I’ve run out of apologies
for still missing you,
still feeling lost,
still waking up with the same hollow space
where you used to be,
Compassion steps closer.
It does not tell me to be grateful.
It does not tell me to move on.
It does not compare my pain
to anyone else’s.
Instead, it brushes the hair from my face
and says,
“Of course you still hurt.
Of course this takes time.
Of course your love is louder
than any calendar.”
Guilt taps its watch again,
louder now.
“You should be over this,”
it insists.
Compassion gently takes my hand,
places it on my own heart,
and whispers,
“You should be with this.
As long as you need.”
And for a moment,
between one breath and the next,
I remember that healing is not a deadline,
it’s a room I am allowed to sit in
until my legs are ready to stand.
With gentleness,
Ruthie
Next Thursday, a reflection.