I Wish I Could Tell You Grieving Takes Time

I wish I could tell you grieving takes time. So take all the time that you need. That those eyes that haven't stopped weeping are all right. That it shall stop, at some point, then it might come back again. That the void you're feeling right now will be filled but there'd be moments it will be back to being empty again. And it's fine if you cannot accept everything now, or tomorrow, or not at all.

I wish I could whisper to you gently that you don't have to be strong. Sometimes, being weak is the answer, you have to falter. It's draining, exhausting, but sometimes, that's where we should be heading. That cowardice is also strength.

Losing them is and feels unfair. Especially when it's so sudden. Grief is a game we'll play forever, from time to time, until the loop stops. I wish I could tell you something default like, They're in a happier place now. But who knows where they are? And we both know it doesn't change anything for you want them to be right beside you. Where you can see them, touch them, talk to them, and hear their thoughts back or just even see their nods, smiles, and even their furious face and mannerisms. Or even if you're miles apart, you know you'll see them when you go back home.

I wish I could take you out of this slow spin of sadness.

Grieving isn't linear — I know you already know this. But I wish you overcome it in a healthy way. Process it in the way you have it to be, and not like how others say as if it comes with a manual. It doesn't have to be fast. It doesn't have to be slow. It just has to be at your own pace. It's OK if you'll be back to square one or even square zero or as far as negative 100 after crossing all the numbers ahead. Because sometimes, that's really how it is — not moving forward, just wallowing in our emotions. Till they all dissolve and be up again. Till they transform into probably something hopefully better.

I wish I could. But I'll be here when or if you ever need to hear these.