The shape of grief is unpredictable and profound.

I stand in front of the mirror and my refection is unrecognizable. To myself and perhaps to others.

Tendrils of sorrow spiraling upwards, teasing and reticent, they wrap around, tethering me to the ground. Each step feels heavy. Hesitant, I try to push forward but there can be no more lightness as I move.

Grief is a terrible thief. It changed the very essence of who I was, who I wanted to be and what I thought was important and valued. It has robbed me of so much. Things I once felt so passionately about are dull with memory. Pure joy is as distant to me as once was my childhood. Grief is my reaction to the loss I have suffered. And it is a heavy burden.

But it is bereavement that eludes me; the state of loss. I can be grieved but I cannot succumb to being bereaved. What a terrible irony isn’t it?

It binds me to a stance that very few understand. I am, oh so complicated. Pieces of me yearn to help you see my point of view but that would mean suffering and even I, could not afflict such uncertainty and pain.

So I run.


To chase away the pain. To see my memories clearly.

I escape to my mom whose love reminds me that there are still safe havens in this world to be had.

I bolt to my father whose stoicism reminds me that strength is a currency I have long traded in.

I fall into their arms and feel my sorrow held at bay and the tendrils loosen their grip… if only for a moment