Some days, I wake up and it feels like there’s a stone in my chest. Not sharp—just heavy. It’s not dramatic or loud. It’s just there, making everything slower. Grief has a way of folding itself into the smallest moments. It sits quietly in the pause between tasks, in the way my coffee cools too fast, in the way I forget what I was saying mid-sentence.
I used to think grief had a timeline. Like something I could finish. Like a storm that passes and leaves clear skies. But grief doesn’t work like that. It’s not a season—it’s a cycle. It loops back. It arrives unexpectedly, even years later, dressed in familiar smells or songs or anniversaries I thought I’d forgotten.
And depression—depression is what happens when the grief stays too long. When the world loses its colour. When getting through the day feels like dragging your body through water. When you laugh but feel nothing, when you rest but feel unrested. It’s not always sadness. Sometimes it’s just numbness.
What no one tells you is how invisible it all becomes. People see you smiling at the grocery store, replying to messages, attending meetings. But inside, you’re holding the weight of things no one can see. And that invisibility can be its own kind of pain. The loneliness of being misunderstood.
Nature, in its quiet wisdom, has taught me something different. I think of the African savannah after a long drought. Everything looks dry, brittle, lifeless. But just beneath the surface, seeds lie waiting. They know how to rest. They know how to wait for the rain. And when it comes, even after months—or years—they bloom again.
I remind myself: I am allowed to rest. I am allowed to feel the weight. I don’t have to rush my healing just because the world wants me to “bounce back.”
In a world that often demands productivity over presence, grief and depression can feel like failure. But they’re not. They’re natural responses to loss, change, betrayal, heartbreak. They’re reminders that I am deeply human. That I have loved. That I have lost. That I still care.
I no longer try to “fix” my sadness. I try to listen to it. To create space for it. Some days that looks like journaling. Other days it’s just sitting under a tree and breathing. Some days I show up. Other days I crawl. But I’m still here. Still breathing. Still trying.
And maybe, for now, that’s enough.