When Grief Comes in Waves – A Gentle Word for the Brokenhearted

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love with nowhere to go.” – Jamie Anderson

Some days, it feels like you’re drowning. Not in water—but in absence.
In memories. In the echo of what used to be.

Grief doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t knock politely or announce its arrival.
It just… comes.
Sudden. Unexpected. All-consuming.

Like a wave.

You may feel like you’re floating just fine one moment—distracted, functional, even smiling.
And then it hits.
A smell, a date, a song, a silence.
And you’re on your knees again, gasping for air.

This is for those moments. The unbearable ones.

The ones where getting out of bed feels like too much.
Where food tastes like nothing.
Where sleep won’t come, or won’t stay -or won't awaken.
Where the ache settles in your chest and sits like stone.

Where you wonder, “How am I supposed to live without them?”
If you’re there, you are not broken. 

Sometimes the grief shows up as anxiety that doesn’t have words—
A racing heart in the middle of the night. A cold sweat from a dream that felt so real… only to wake up and realize they’re still gone. Whether through death, divorce, distance, or devastating custody battles—the absence is real. And the body doesn’t always know how to make sense of it.

You may find yourself longing to fall back into that dream again, just to hold them once more…
To hear their voice, feel their presence—even for a moment.
And when that dream slips away, it can feel like losing them all over again.

This, too, is grief.
This, too, is trauma.
And it deserves gentleness.
You are grieving.

And grief is not a flaw in your design—it is evidence that you loved deeply, and still do.

Healing is not a race—it’s a rhythm.

I’ve come to believe that emotional recovery isn’t about erasing the past.
It’s about learning how to live in the present without being pulled under by it.
Sometimes that means learning to breathe deeply again.
Sometimes it means letting go of guilt that was never yours to carry.
Sometimes it means being okay with not being okay… for longer than people expect.

Because the soul heals in whispers, not deadlines.

If your story includes trauma, grief, abandonment, or deep valleys no one else seems to understand, know this: your healing matters.
And it deserves just as much celebration as physical strength.

When you open your eyes in the morning after a restless night—that is strength.
When you choose to eat something nourishing—that is strength.
When you cry in the shower, then get dressed anyway—that is strength.
When you choose not to isolate, not to numb, not to give up—that is radical, radiant strength.

You are doing sacred work. Even when it feels like survival.
Especially then.

I’m still learning how to release the ache and receive the joy.
How to tell my body it’s safe now.
How to thank my younger self for enduring when she didn’t know how.

If you’re in that space too—relearning safety, rebuilding hope, rerouting your nervous system—I see you.

This blog, this journey, this little corner of reflection is for us.
The quiet over-comers. The weary rebuilders. The ones who know healing isn’t just about recovery—it’s about resurrection.

So if no one has told you today:
You’re doing a good job.
Keep going, tender heart.
There is beauty on the other side of this.
And you don’t have to climb alone.

Holding Space When You Don’t Know What to Say

If you are reading this as someone standing beside the grieving—this part is for you.

You don’t have to fix it.
You can’t fix it.

No matter how much you love them, you cannot take away their pain—and that’s okay. The most powerful thing you can do is stay. Just be present.

Don’t search for the right words.
Don’t try to make it make sense.
Don’t offer platitudes or silver linings too soon.

Just be there. Sit in the silence with them. Let your presence say what words cannot.

Bring soup. Fold laundry. Light a candle in their kitchen. Send a text that says, “No need to respond—I’m just thinking of you.” Let them speak if they want to. Let them be quiet if they don’t. Listen without judgment. Love without conditions.

Because what grieving hearts need most is not advice—it’s companionship. A hand to hold in the dark. A safe place to fall apart without needing to explain why.

That’s how we hold space for the hurting.
Not with answers—but with love that doesn’t flinch at pain.