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

Grief they say is love with nowhere to go. It’s the price of caring deeply, of having someone become a part of you so fully that their absence feels like a wound you’ll never truly heal from. It is a strange, relentless thing. It doesn’t arrive in a single wave to wash over you and recede; instead, it comes in ripples, pulling you under when you least expect it.

Today was one of those days when it felt impossible to breathe.

People tell me to be strong, to move forward, but they don’t understand. Strength isn’t about pretending I’m fine; it’s about getting through each day, each hour, even when it feels impossible. Moving forward doesn’t mean leaving them behind, and that’s what terrifies me most—forgetting their voice, their touch, their essence.

It feels like I’m living in two worlds: the one where everyone else exists—laughing, moving forward, carrying on—and the one where I’m trapped, haunted by the absence of my parents I can never reach again. The world has color and noise for others, but for me, it’s muted, heavy, and suffocating.

There’s a strange cruelty in how the smallest, most unexpected things can shatter me; a song on the radio, a scent that carries me back to a moment we shared. Even the way the sunlight hits a certain spot—it all reminds me of what I’ve lost. Each reminder feels like a fresh wound, reopening the ache I thought I could numb.

What hurts the most is that the world keeps spinning, as if nothing has changed but for me, everything is different. It’s quieter now, emptier. There’s this aching hollow in my chest that no distraction can fill. It’s like I’m stuck in a parallel universe, where my pain is invisible to everyone else. They laugh, they plan, they move forward, while I’m frozen in place, tethered to a moment that broke me. I want to beg them to stop, to just pause for a second and acknowledge the enormity of what’s missing. But life doesn’t work that way. I try to keep busy too, to trick my mind into forgetting for just a moment, but grief is patient. It waits until I’m still—until I’m alone—and then it comes crashing back, heavy and unrelenting.

I keep replaying memories, both beautiful and painful. The laughter, the conversations, the little moments that seemed so ordinary at the time but now feel priceless. And then there’s the guilt—the “what ifs” and “I should haves” that haunt me. Did I do enough? Say enough? Love enough?

I envy their ignorance—the way they can exist without this shadow pressing down on them. They don’t flinch at memories or choke on tears that come out of nowhere. They don’t carry this constant, gnawing ache that makes even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable.

Sometimes, I catch myself resenting their joy, even though I know it’s not fair. It’s not their fault that my world fell apart while theirs stayed intact. But it still stings, this realization that my grief is mine alone. No one else will ever feel the depth of this loss the way I do, and that loneliness is its own kind of heartbreak.

I want to believe the world notices, that somehow the universe marks this loss in its own quiet way—a flicker of a star, a whisper in the wind, something. But all I see is life carrying on without pause, and it makes me feel like my pain, my love, and even their memory are just… fading into the background. Forgotten by everyone but me.

Some days, I wonder if this pain will ever end, or if it will just become a part of me—a shadow I carry forever. The thought of moving on feels like betrayal, but staying here in this grief feels like drowning. Either way, I lose.

I wish I could just go back—just for a moment—to hear my parents’ voice, to hold them, to tell them everything I didn’t get to say. But all I have now are memories, and they’re not enough. They’re never enough.

Today hurts, but I’ll try to take it one breath at a time. They’d want that, wouldn’t they?