Grief does weird things to you.

One day you feel like you’re finally finding your footing, and the next you’re crying in the grocery store because a song came on, or because you saw something that reminded you of the person you miss.

It makes you forget things. It makes you lose your train of thought. It leaves you staring into space, wondering how the world keeps moving when yours feels like it stopped.

What I don’t understand is when we decided there was an expiration date on grief. Why do people expect you to be okay after a funeral? After a week? A month? A year?

Grief doesn’t work that way.

It hides. It lets you breathe for a while, convincing you that maybe you’re healing. Then it quietly slips back in, taps you on the shoulder, and whispers, Remember me?

And you remember everything.

The laugh you haven’t heard in too long. The voice you’re terrified you’ll forget. The conversations you’ll never get to have. The moments you wish you could live just one more time.

I’m learning that grief isn’t something you get over. It’s something you learn to carry. Some days it’s light enough that you almost forget it’s there. Other days, it feels too heavy to stand.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe love this deep was never meant to disappear. Maybe grief is simply love with nowhere left to go.