Grief has a way of silencing even the most expressive of souls. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything here, and I’ve struggled with how to begin again. When my father passed away, I thought the flood of emotions would pour out onto the page, raw and unfiltered, creating space for connection and maybe even healing. But instead, the weight of it all left me wordless. The very act of putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, felt impossible.
I’ve always believed in the power of writing—a place where thoughts become tangible, where emotions find a voice, where meaning emerges from chaos. Yet in the aftermath of loss, my mind became a tangle of feelings I couldn’t articulate. Grief settled in like a dense fog, blurring my usual clarity and robbing me of the energy to share my world. What once felt like a sanctuary—this space where I could always find comfort in words—felt unreachable.
It’s strange, isn’t it? To be brimming with emotions but unable to express them? I imagined that losing my father would give me endless material to explore: memories to recount, lessons to cherish, and yes, pain to process. And yet, every time I tried to write, the words slipped away like water through cupped hands. The emotional toll was too great, and instead of opening up, I retreated inward. Silence felt safer than exposing the rawness of my heart.
I don’t think I’ve ever truly acknowledged how much my father’s presence shaped my voice. He was a steadfast anchor, a quiet supporter of everything I did. Losing him felt like losing a part of myself, a piece of the foundation I had always relied on. How do you write when the ground beneath you feels unsteady? How do you share when the very act of recounting memories feels like reopening a wound?
I’ve carried guilt for my silence here. I’ve wondered if I’ve let you down by not sharing my journey as it unfolded. But grief is unpredictable, and it demands grace—for ourselves, for the messy, nonlinear path it takes, and for the times when silence is all we can muster. I’m beginning to understand that stepping away was not a failure, but a necessity. Sometimes, healing requires us to retreat before we can return.
Now, as I sit here writing, it feels like the first breath after being underwater for too long. The words don’t flow as easily as they once did, but they’re here, and that feels like progress. I’m not the same person who last wrote to you. Loss has a way of changing us in ways we don’t always recognize immediately. But perhaps this is the beauty of writing—the ability to capture who we are, even in our most fragile moments.
So here I am, stepping back into this space, not with answers or polished stories, but with honesty. To anyone who has experienced a silence like mine, know that you’re not alone. Grief may have stolen my words for a while, but it couldn’t take away the desire to connect. Thank you for your patience, for waiting for me to find my way back to this place. It means more than I can express.
These are my thoughts. You may have all of them, some of them or none of them.
Huggs and kisses <3