Beyond Unearthed, Beyond Unshaken

Photo credits: Blue Monday (1985), acrylic on canvas by Annie Lee.

Grief is not only heavy because of what it carries, but because of what it reveals. When understanding opens the soul, it does not show us a puddle—it shows us the sea. The weight is not only in the loss itself, but in its matter: the how, the when, the circumstances that surround it and linger long after the moment has passed.

What makes grief unbearably lonely is not absence, but expectation. The selfishness of those still here who demand full access, full presence, full capacity, while grief itself already suffocates. As if carrying something this heavy should somehow make you stronger for them, not quieter for yourself.

Grief is not a blame. It is a reason for understanding. It is not asking others to carry what they cannot, only to recognize what already exists. Understanding is the lightest and most considerate form of care. Consideration requires humility, because we are all only human, and no one is strong on demand.

I am practicing forgiveness, but I do not forget. And when someone cannot understand the weight I carry alone—without checking in, without asking, without pausing—yet still expects me to show up for them when I can barely show up for myself, I learn something important. Not everyone can meet you in every season. This is not condemnation. It is awareness.

There are people who arrive for celebration, people who arrive for crisis, and people who remain. Categorizing people is not cruelty—it is clarity. It allows us to understand where others are able to meet us, and where they are not. Grief has taught me that understanding people’s limits does not erase my needs. It simply helps me place them where they belong.

Because grief is exhausting. Heavy. All-consuming. And no one should be made to feel as though their sorrow is something to minimize, rush through, or carry in silence because it is inconvenient or uncomfortable. Needing a shoulder to cry on is not weakness. Wanting to be seen, held, and understood is not asking for too much. It is human.

Strength is not infinite. Just because I have it does not mean it belongs to everyone. And just because I am strong does not mean I do not need care. So I give myself permission to float. Permission to be imperfect. Permission to stop carrying others while I am learning how to breathe again. I give myself permission to be selfish in seasons that require survival.

To those I loosen my grip on, I do so without anger. I have learned how to let go of what I will never get back, and that has taught me how to understand when others cannot meet me where I stand. This understanding is not bitterness. It is grace. It allows space for compassion without self-abandonment.

May those who love my presence but not my depth never require me to become smaller.

This life is an ocean, and connection does not happen on the surface. It happens in the depths, where we are actually met.

Equilibrium is peace.