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

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it would take for me to share my grief, one pain at a time. Right now, it feels like a mountain I’m not strong enough to climb. When Mama passed away, I kept my pain locked away, hidden behind a smile or a quiet nod, because it felt safer that way. Safer to keep it to myself than to risk being misunderstood, judged, or dismissed.

With Papa’s passing, I know I can no longer keep carrying this alone. It’s exhausting, pretending I’m okay when I’m not. The truth is, I’m scared. Scared of being vulnerable. Scared of what people might think if they see the cracks beneath my surface. Scared that even if I do share, no one will truly understand.

Still, I wonder—what if I could find the courage to start small? Maybe sharing my grief this time around doesn’t have to be a grand confession. Maybe it’s as simple as speaking one truth at a time. A small memory here, a moment of sadness there. Not all at once, but piece by piece, like unraveling a knot.

I think the courage will come from choosing the right people to trust. The ones who don’t try to fix me or rush me to move on. The ones who listen, who stay with me in the silence, and let me feel without judgment.

It will take time, and I’ll probably falter along the way. But I have to believe that sharing my grief won’t break me—it might actually save me. Because healing isn’t about pretending the pain isn’t there. It’s about letting it be seen, one pain at a time, until it feels lighter to carry.

Maybe courage isn’t about being fearless. Maybe it’s about being afraid and opening up anyway.

Maybe writing here about what I truly feel is the start. Perhaps this is me starting to embrace vulnerability.