To the one who worries they should be “further along” by now,

Grief has a cruel habit of making people question themselves.

Why am I still like this.
Why does this still hurt.
Why can’t I get back to who I was.
Why does everything feel harder than it looks for everyone else.

Somewhere along the way, many grieving people absorb a quiet accusation:
Something must be wrong with me.

There is a quiet pressure around grief; an unspoken set of rules:

Carry it - but don’t show it too much.
Love them - but don’t talk about them too often.
Miss them - but keep functioning smoothly.
Be honest - but not inconvenient.

So we start editing ourselves.
We swallow sentences.
We shorten stories.
We say “I’m okay” when we are absolutely not okay.
We learn which parts of our grief make other people uncomfortable — and hide those first.

Not because the grief is wrong.
Because the room is small.
And the world is attached to the “move on” narrative.

If you have felt yourself shrinking your truth to make it easier for others — I see you.

If you’ve thought,
“I should be coping better than this,”
“I shouldn’t still be this affected,”
“I should be stronger by now,”

Let me say this clearly.

Nothing is wrong with you.
You are not malfunctioning.
You are responding to love that has nowhere physical left to land.

Of course your system is different.
Of course your energy changed.
Of course your priorities rearranged.

Love did that.
Loss did that.
Reality did that.
Not weakness.

Grief is not a character flaw.
It is an attachment that didn’t end when a life did.

One true thing: You do not need to minimise your grief to make it acceptable.

Quote: “The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss. You will learn to live with it.”
- Elisabeth Kübler-Ross & David Kessler

Song:
“Fourth of July” - Sufjan Stevens

Journal prompt:
Where have I been reducing my grief so others feel more comfortable?

A small ritual for this week:
Say their name out loud once today. Not privately in your head - out loud. Let the sound of love still exist in the air.

One thing to remember this week:
Your grief does not need to be made smaller to be allowed.

A note from me:

It’s a significant week here. The book is launching. The 28-day self-guided writing course is open. More people have joined this circle. And I want to say something plainly, not promotionally.

None of this came from strategy.
It came from devastation and love.

When Kahlia died, part of me died too. Not metaphorically, structurally. The version of me that believed love could keep someone safe at all costs did not survive. The version of me that thought grief was something you pass through and leave behind did not survive either.

What remained was different. Quieter, less impressed by performance., more committed to truth.

I built the book and the writing course because I could not find enough spaces where grief was allowed to be spoken in full sentences; not fixed, not reframed, not hurried - just witnessed.

That word matters to me: witnessed.

Not analysed.
Not solved.
Seen.

If you are reading this and carrying a grief you rarely show in full, you are not invisible here. Not to me.

If this letter feels like recognition, you are welcome to share it. This work spreads person to person, not platform to platform.

And if you want structured companionship in your own words and story, the 28-day writing course is open now. It is gentle. It is honest. It does not rush you.

I’m glad you’re here. With you in the truth of it,

Kirsten