The thought arrived quietly, the way unwanted guests do.
I was standing in the supermarket, staring at a shelf of my mother’s soap, Sunlight, when a couple walked past holding hands. They were laughing at something only they understood, two people in their own small world. Suddenly my throat tightened, my eyes burned and there it was, that familiar, sharp voice in my head.
“You’re really going to cry in public again? You should be over this by now.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. The voice shows up in different outfits. Sometimes as a joke, “Wow, still talking about this?” Sometimes as concern, “Maybe you need to move on.” Sometimes it steals the faces of people I love when they change the subject too quickly or tell me to “think positive.” Most often, though, it uses my own voice, turning my grief into something I am apparently failing at.
Maybe you know a version of that voice, too. The one that says things like:
“You’re too sensitive.”
“It’s been months.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“Stop burdening everyone.”
For a long time, I believed that voice. I treated it like a drill sergeant, convinced that if I just tried harder, cried less, smiled more and talked about it less, I would finally earn the right to be “okay.” I mistook numbness for strength and silence for progress.
But here is what I am slowly learning.
Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. It doesn’t read self-help posts. It doesn’t care what other people think is appropriate. It moves at the pace of love, not at the pace of social comfort.
If that harsh voice has been shouting at you lately, telling you that you are taking too long, feeling too much or holding on too tightly, I want you to hear something softer.
There is nothing wrong with you for still hurting.
There is nothing wrong with you for not being “over it.”
There is nothing wrong with you for needing more time than people expected.
The goal is not to erase what happened. The goal is to learn how to breathe alongside it, especially in those moments when silence feels heavier than words.
With gentleness,
Ruthie
Next Thursday, a poem. I am going to bake a cake now and be exactly where I am, voice or no voice.