A letter from grief

You can't avoid me.

Hello there,

Often during my visits with my mom (who has Alzheimer’s), things like this post show up in my morning pages. It’s off the cuff and unplanned, but it feels too raw and honest not to share.

See you soon,

Alexis

A letter from grief

I’ll sneak up on you when you least expect it.
I probably won’t give you a warning, and you’ll probably try to avoid me.

I come in all shapes and sizes: sadness, anger, regret, fear, frustration, guilt, and even happiness. The list goes on. But no matter what, at some point in your life, I’ll show up. I might haunt you, or at the very least, linger.

The more you resist me, the harder I’ll be to handle.
Talking about me might feel awkward, but it helps. It softens the sting of whatever you’re going through: divorce, an aging parent, a shifting identity. Whatever it is, your therapist will likely tell you not to shove me down—because like a beach ball pushed underwater, I’ll only pop back up, stronger and harder.

“Take up space,” she’ll say.

I know it’s hard. I know it might feel weird sharing your darkest thoughts with friends. But the good ones will listen. They’ll ask questions, or just offer a safe space, one without judgment or expectations.

Let me out, and I’ll sting less.
But don’t rush me. I won’t disappear overnight.
I’ll always be part of you—a mark on your soul that makes you softer, stronger, deeper, more understanding.

I’ll stretch you in ways you didn’t know you could be stretched.
You’ll learn to appreciate life’s small pleasures.
You’ll start to see that most things you used to worry about don’t really matter.

In a way, meeting me will set you free.
Free from expectations.
Free from people-pleasing.
Free from saying yes when you really want to say no.

You might not believe it now, but one day, you’ll thank me for how I changed you.
For how I cracked you open in all the right places.
For how I gave you a new outlook on what truly matters.

But until then, I’ll dim your light.
Like the short winter days before spring blossoms are ready to grow.

The magnolia tree at my childhood home was my mom’s favorite—every spring, she’d fill the house with fresh-cut blooms. Photo by Yoksel 🌿 Zok on Unsplash

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