Disclaimer: This post discusses grief and loss and may evoke strong emotions. Please read with care and prioritize your well-being.

It feels like the world should stop—just for a moment—so I can catch my breath. But it doesn’t. Everyone around me seems to keep going, talking, laughing, even crying, but none of it feels like it matches what I’m carrying inside.

Losing Papa feels like losing a piece of myself, a part no one else could ever understand. I can’t explain it in words that make sense, and I’m afraid if I try, people will just say, “I’m sorry” or “I understand,” when I know they don’t. How could they? He wasn’t their dad. They didn’t share the moments we did, the inside jokes, the life lessons, the quiet understanding that didn’t need words.

So instead, I stay silent. I nod and thank them for their condolences, but inside, I feel like I’m screaming. Grieving alone feels safer somehow, even if it’s heavier. At least in my own space, I don’t have to worry about whether people mean what they say or if they’re just trying to fill the silence.

But even here, by myself, the weight of it is unbearable. I keep thinking about all the things I’ll never get to share with him again—his bulalo, his stories, his songs. He was my rock, my guide, and now I’m drifting, trying to make sense of a world that feels so different without him in it.

I know people mean well, but I also know they can’t truly understand the depth of this loss. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe grief is meant to be personal, something no one else can touch. For now, I’ll let myself feel it all—alone. Maybe someday I’ll find the words to share, but right now, I just need the quiet, even if it hurts.