Grief Isn’t Just About Death — It’s About All the Goodbyes You Didn’t See Coming
Not all grief comes with funerals. Some comes in quiet waves: a version of you, a relationship, a goodbye that never said its name. Let’s talk about the grief we’re taught to overlook.
Grief doesn’t always wear black.
It doesn’t always come with flowers, funerals, or final words.
Sometimes it slips in quietly, without ceremony.
Without a name.
It’s the ache after a friendship fades without explanation.
It’s the silence between two people who once knew each other completely.
It’s the version of you that never got to be.
The home you left behind.
The language you forgot how to dream in.
Grief lives in transitions, in empty spaces, in what-could-have-beens.
It hides in our calendars—anniversaries we don’t talk about, dates that no longer make sense.
It hides in the clothes we keep at the back of the closet.
In the way we look away when someone says, “But that was so long ago.”
We are taught to grieve death.
But what about all the other endings?
The relationships that unraveled slowly.
The job you outgrew but stayed in.
The city you left with a knot in your throat.
The child you couldn’t become. The parent you never had.
The faith that no longer fits.
Grief asks for reverence, not comparison.
It doesn’t need to be justified to be real.
And it certainly doesn’t need to be big to be sacred.
You don’t have to call it grief to feel its weight.
But giving it a name can be the first step in letting it breathe.
You are allowed to mourn what didn’t happen.
And you are allowed to heal without rushing.
— Reflections from the Therapy Room
High-Functioning — A Fancy Way to Say You’re Quietly Falling Apart
You’re doing well. You’re holding it all together. But something feels off. This is for the ones who seem “fine” but are carrying too much in silence.
There’s a particular kind of suffering that hides behind calendars, checklists, and compliments.
You show up. You’re productive. You answer emails on time. You remember birthdays. You even give great advice. People say you’re strong, stable, grounded. And you are—at least in public.
But here’s the quiet truth: high-functioning doesn’t mean well.
It often means disconnected, numb, exhausted, and very good at pretending.
You go through the motions, smile on cue, maybe even laugh at the right moments. But underneath, there’s a hum of anxiety you’ve normalized. A subtle grief you’ve buried so deep it’s become personality. A tension in your body that never quite releases, even when you sleep.
You know something’s off.
But you don’t “look” depressed. You don’t “have a reason” to be anxious. You haven’t “earned” the right to fall apart. So you keep going. You keep functioning. You keep being “fine.”
But functioning is not the same as living.
And performance is not the same as peace.
Sometimes, the most high-functioning people are carrying the heaviest emotional loads. Not because they’re stronger. But because they learned early on that showing pain is unsafe. That competence is a shield. That staying in control is the only way to be loved.
If any of this feels familiar, I’m not here to diagnose you.
I’m here to say: you don’t have to earn rest, softness, or support by first breaking down completely.
You don’t have to wait for crisis to deserve care.
You are allowed to be a masterpiece and a mess—at the same time.
“You’re not failing. You’re tired of holding everything alone.”
— Reflections from the Therapy Room
Spoiler Alert: Healing Will Break You Before It Makes You Whole
Healing isn’t light and lavender oil. It’s disorientation, grief, and the radical act of showing up for yourself in the mess. This is the side of healing no one prepares you for.
Because true transformation rarely comes wrapped in comfort.
Healing doesn’t always look like light.
Sometimes it looks like the shadow that returns.
It’s not a straight or gentle path.
It’s a descent: sometimes subtle, sometimes abrupt.
Like winter preparing the earth silently, without asking permission.
There’s a trap in believing that healing means getting better.
Healing, in truth, is remembering.
It’s touching what hurt once again, this time with company.
It’s learning to stay where you once fled.
It’s dismantling the idea that you must be someone else to deserve love.
Much of what we call “functioning” is just adapting to pain.
And sometimes, what scares us most isn’t the suffering, but the possibility of change.
Because change disrupts.
And for a while, everything feels uncertain.
But there, in that space where you no longer know who you are but don’t want to return to what was, something is stirring.
No one can heal for you.
But you don’t have to do it alone.
And even if it doesn’t feel like it, if you’re feeling, doubting, searching—you’ve already begun.
Healing isn’t a destination. It’s a courageous act of self-love.
— Reflections from the Therapy Room
How Do We Know We Need Therapy? — Do We Really Know?
Sometimes the signs don’t scream. They whisper. A look, a silence, a weight that doesn’t lift. This post explores what we often miss—and what it means to finally listen.
Exploring the quiet signs we often overlook and the courage it takes to listen.
There are silences that are not peace, and habits that are not freedom.
We live surrounded by external definitions of what it means to be “okay”: to adapt, to perform, to smile. To keep going. But sometimes, the soul lags behind. And even if the body keeps moving, there’s a part of you that watches from a distance—feeling out of place in your own life.
It’s not always about an open wound. Sometimes, it’s a quiet discomfort that turns into routine. An inner voice that whispers, almost ashamed: “This doesn’t feel right”, “I don’t know who I am anymore”, “Why is everything so hard?”
The need to turn inward doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it barely hums.
And yet, ignoring it is like walking with a stone in your shoe: you learn to limp, until you forget what it feels like to move freely.
Seeking therapy doesn’t mean you’re broken.
It means you’re alive.
It means you’ve stayed sensitive enough to feel that something inside you needs breath, care, and words.
That your old ways of coping no longer fit. That you don’t want to live on autopilot anymore. That you suspect there is a more honest life waiting—one more congruent with who you truly are and how you truly feel.
Sometimes all it takes is a different kind of conversation. A space without judgment, where you can begin to say out loud what you’ve been carrying in silence.
Not to get quick answers, but to begin listening to what’s been left unsaid.
To inhabit yourself with more presence.
To understand your own patterns and find meaning even in what hurts.
There is no precise threshold for when therapy becomes “necessary.”
But if something in you made it all the way here—and you’re still reading these lines with a knot in your throat—maybe that’s the sign.
You’re not broken. You’re full of unheard messages.
And truly listening to yourself may be the most radical act of dignity.
— Reflections from the Therapy Room