Grief That Is Still Happening

 Some grief comes from death.
Some grief comes from endings.

And then there is the kind of grief that comes from being left while still alive.

This is not grief I look back on.
This is grief I wake up to.

It comes from what my children are doing to me now —
the distance,
the silence,
the way I am slowly removed from their lives as if I no longer matter.

There was no funeral.
No final goodbye.
Just a quiet withdrawal that keeps repeating itself.

People often say, “Time will heal it.”
But time does not heal what is still happening.

Every unanswered message is a fresh wound.
Every important moment I am excluded from reopens the same ache.
Every reminder that I am no longer chosen cuts in a new way.

I grieve while still breathing.
I grieve while still loving.
I grieve while still hoping -- even when hope hurts.

This kind of grief is confusing.
It makes you question your worth.
It makes you replay every memory, every sacrifice, every moment you stayed when it was hard.

And yet, I am still here.
Still standing.
Still loving -- even when love is not returned.

I am learning that grief does not mean weakness.
It means I cared deeply.
It means I loved fully.
It means something sacred was broken -- not because I failed, but because life is cruel in ways no one prepares you for.

Today, I name this grief.
Not to drown in it --
but to tell the truth about it.

And for now, that is enough.