I Write Her Alive

I often hear people describe grief as a journey.
A process.
A path.
Honestly, I think it’s more like weather; unpredictable, inconvenient, and capable of knocking you flat on a Tuesday for reasons you can’t even name.

Most days I don’t feel like I’m “grieving” at all.
I feel like I’m writing her alive.

Every sentence I put on the page pulls her closer.
Every memory I name becomes a match struck in the dark.
And as strange as it sounds, I don’t feel her dead.
I feel her spark sitting beside me, flickering as I type.

It’s comforting, yes.
It’s also terrifying.

Because there’s a whisper that follows me around:
If I stop writing, does she disappear again?
Does she die a second time; quietly this time, not with sirens and shock, but with neglect?
Does letting my fingers rest mean letting her go?

This is the part no one prepares you for - the emotional whiplash of grief.
One minute, writing feels like resurrection.
The next, it feels like defiance; my refusal to let the world forget her.
And in the very same breath, it feels like fear.
Fear that the words are the only thing keeping her close.
Fear that one day the sentences will run out.

Grief is all of it, all at once.
Comfort and panic.
Love and devastation.
Strength and collapse.
The past and the future colliding in the present tense.

Sometimes I feel like she’s doing this with me; helping me write, nudging me forward, refusing to let me fall silent.
Other times I feel like I’m dragging myself through mud, carrying the weight of her absence in every line.

But here’s the truth I’m slowly learning:
She doesn’t live in the writing.
She lives in me.
The writing is just the doorway.

So even on the days when the words come slowly, or not at all, she doesn’t vanish.
Love doesn’t work like that.
It doesn’t die twice.
It doesn’t fade because a paragraph does.

I write her alive - not because she’s gone,
but because love this fierce refuses to stay quiet.