Grief doesn’t always start with silence. Sometimes, it begins with a scream… yours or the world’s, it’s hard to tell. This post is about the day everything split open. The day I watched my mother’s body be pulled from a car while her soul had already left. It’s about the moment my baby pointed to a running engine and unknowingly rewrote my entire life. It’s about the horror of seeing blue skin, the weight of collapsing into your brother’s arms, the helplessness of watching strangers try to restart the heart that raised you. This is what it means to be orphaned in adulthood. To be old enough to know what death means, and still feel like a lost child in the wreckage. It’s the first moment time broke, and grief became the air I breathe.

Grief doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it whispers in the dark, soft and seductive, until you can’t tell the difference between breathing and breaking. It takes you piece by piece until you can’t tell if you’re still here at all. Sometimes, it’s suffocating. A heavy, choking darkness that wraps around your throat and whispers things you’re afraid to say out loud. This post is what it feels like to beg the night not to let you wake up. To stare at the ceiling so long you start looking for cracks in reality. It’s a window into a time when I couldn’t trust my own thoughts, when every breath felt like punishment, and surviving felt like betrayal. This is the dark side of the veil… where grief doesn’t just hurt, it writes itself into your bones.

Grief isn’t always quiet. Sometimes, it’s a wildfire. A rage you can’t put out. This post is about the anger, the kind that doesn’t pass politely. The kind that sinks its teeth into your chest and doesn’t let go. It’s what it feels like to hold the child your brother left behind while trying not to scream at the sky. It’s the unbearable tension of missing someone and hating them in the same breath. This is what grief looks like when love and fury live side by side. When surviving feels more like burning alive than healing.

Generational curses aren’t always loud. Sometimes, they look like little girls learning to swallow their feelings to survive. This post is about breaking that. About creating a space where my daughter’s feelings are not only allowed, but welcomed. Where she doesn’t have to earn safety, she just gets to be held in it. It’s a glimpse into cycle-breaking, the soft rebellion of listening, and the quiet pride of raising her differently.

Anxiety isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s the quiet ache of wearing a body that feels like armor, always braced for the blow that never comes. It’s the tension you carry in your shoulders, the breath you didn’t know you were holding, the spiral hidden beneath a practiced smile. It’s the ache of feeling like too much and never enough, all at once.

Healing isn’t linear. It’s loud and messy and out of order. Some days I revisit every stage of grief before lunch. Others, I’m frozen in one for weeks. This post is a raw unraveling - a glimpse into the storm, and a reminder that even when we’re doing the work, we’re allowed to struggle. I’m not sharing a story of ‘healed.’ I’m sharing what it looks like to keep going when the healing is still happening.