somewhere between the echo and the silence

how grief changes you, where comfort used to live, and what it means to be “okay”

Youth Mourning by Sir George Clausen (1916)

There’s this feeling, when everything starts closing in, like you’re caught between something you don’t want to lose and something you already have. The things that used to make sense, about who you are, how life works, suddenly feel out of reach. Not every day, but some days, finding comfort in the things I used to love feels impossible. Those little things I’d turn to when everything else felt too loud, now, it’s like they’re still there, but just out of my grasp, like they’ve shifted somehow. Like I’m not quite who I was, and nothing feels the same. I feel stuck between wanting to move forward and being too weighed down to go anywhere.

“Only the loss remains which can never be recuperated. The event is over. The event has been overcome and yet the loss is only beginning. Every day it grows deeper. More and more is forgotten. Less and less is really known for certain.”
— Sally Rooney, Intermezzo

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about loss, it’s that it doesn’t just take someone away, it takes a piece of you too. And I wasn’t prepared for that. It’s like being left behind in the quiet, surrounded by echoes of what used to be. Every step you take feels like it’s in slow motion, like you’re moving but not going anywhere. There’s this constant ache that never really goes away. I keep thinking it’ll stop, but it doesn’t. Maybe grief isn’t something you fix. Maybe it’s something you learn to live with, something you grow around.

“Looking at herself in the mirror, she never forgot that death was hovering behind that face. Faint yet tenacious, like black writing bleeding through thin paper.”
— Han Kang, The White Book

And with that feeling grows another monster, anxiety. That’s a whole different beast. It doesn’t just sit there with you, it claws its way into your chest, takes over your thoughts, and suddenly, you’re carrying the weight of the world, even though the world didn’t ask you to. It’s like being still but feeling like I’m running a race, with my head full of noise and no way to catch my breath. That’s the part that leaves me feeling stuck. I want to move, I want to find a way out. But every direction feels off, or at least, not the right one.

“Life is not a zero‐sum game. It owes us nothing, and things just happen the way they do. Sometimes they’re fair and everything makes sense; sometimes they’re so unfair we question everything.”
— Benedict Wells, The End of Loneliness

I used to think there was this clear path ahead, that if I just kept going, eventually I’d make it through. But now, I realize there’s no clear route forward. It’s not about fixing myself or “getting over it.” It’s about sitting with the discomfort and accepting that life doesn’t always turn out how you expect, and trust that, somehow I’ll figure it out.

I’m trying my best to enjoy the things I once loved, even though it feels hard. My therapist says it takes time; my pain is too recent, too fresh. Moving forward feels distant, fragmented. I guess that’s normal, that’s human.

And that’s what I’m learning right now: the light doesn’t always come in blinding flashes. Sometimes it’s just the gentle pull of a song or a book that sees you when nothing else does. Maybe being stuck isn’t about being broken, it’s just about being somewhere you don’t fully understand yet.

“The fear is not for what is lost. What is lost is already in the wall. What is lost is already behind the locked doors. The fear is for what is still to be lost.”
— Joan Didion, Blue Nights