The Grief That Stays While Love Changes
On loving someone through transformation, and learning to let go without leaving.
“For even as love crowns you, so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your pruning.”
—Khalil Gibran, The Prophet
Grief has a funny way of reminding us that it’s still there. Still heavy, still waiting to be addressed. We walk around with the weight of grief on our hearts as if it’s something we’re meant to hold on to, but it was never meant for us to carry forever. I’ve watched how family, friends, even myself, swallowed grief as if it were medicine being forced down for an illness, we were never given a diagnosis for. So, we walked around pretending to be happy like those people in commercials about medications with the most fucked up side effects. When what we really needed was a prescription for handling grief. Because grief isn’t meant to be swallowed; it’s meant to be released.
There’s a different type of grief that’s weighing heavy on me this week. It waited patiently as I processed and moved through the thoughts and feelings of my sister’s passing. Then it came in with a bullhorn begging for attention. I knew it would, as it would periodically nudge me as if to say I’m here. Won’t you acknowledge me? But I put it off, because that meant I’d have to write about it. And writing about it would make it real. And it being real means I’d have to feel it too. So, here I am writin and feelin and shit.
I’m talking about the type of grieving that takes place when you and someone are still there but no longer present. The type of grief that moves in when you feel yourself and someone else moving in different directions and it’s something you know needs to happen. The kind that oozes out of a relationship and you’re forced to accept that things have changed. And I mean drastically. The slow burn comes to an end, and the embers die out, leaving a coldness that creeps in. That’s what falling out of love feels like. Energies shift, and what were once mutual interests fade. Songs start holding different meanings. The masks slip, and the truth slips out. Steadily trickling the unsaid without remorse. Relentless truths become mirrors, and you’re faced with the fact that it’s the end of an era. Now this was a tough pill to swallow.
Honestly, it’s not anything I didn’t see coming. My intuition is always on point, but nostalgia, comfortability, and routine made me hold on a little longer. I knew we’d go from friends to lovers to whatever this is. And I honestly love whatever this is now. Conversations are more open and honest. The weight of unspoken expectations floated away like helium filled latex at a balloon release (Also, stop doing balloon releases. It’s really bad for the environment). We’re even more comfortable with each other now. Unattached, but connected. Floating free, but grounded. And whatever this is now, is what falling in love again feels like.
I knew that relationship dynamics would change. That she couldn’t be my everything, and I don’t have the capacity to fulfill her every need. It dawned on me years ago that I deserved better. But it wasn’t that I deserved better from her. I deserved better from myself, for myself. She also deserved the same. So, I started healing. And maybe when the healing started is when the grieving process started too. I started healing with blinders on, focused on one aspect at a time. But I was still holding on. Still doing the love thing wrong. Holding on as if love was something I was entitled to possess. As if her happiness was my burden to bear. Being responsible for her happiness was never something I was meant to do. And my own happiness was mine to hold.
Listen, the expectation that someone else could make you happy—let that shit go. Trust me, it ain’t something anyone has the capacity to do. They can add to your happiness, but they themselves, cannot make you happy. Only you can do that.
The past six months left me with nothing but time and space to feel, reflect, and continue healing. Realizing that neither of us were asking for too much—we were just asking the wrong person. We moved from choosing each other to choosing ourselves, and it was one of the best things to happen to our relationship. I chose not to entertain anything that would make me double back on my growth. To return to myself, to love myself unconditionally, to finally let go. My light returned, the hesitation disappeared, my voice became familiar to me again, and the confidence emerged from its slumber. I said the hard part out loud. I’m finally choosing me. She chose the same self-fulness—to step into who she’s meant to be, to find out who she is as an individual. And her glow is a beautiful thing to witness.
And so, I find myself grieving what used to be. Grieving who we were when we first met 20 years ago. Grieving who we were when we first started dating 12 years ago. Grieving who we were when we got married 9 years ago. Grieving who we were a year ago. Grieving who we were six months ago. Grieving who we were just a month ago. Yes, we’re still together, but we’re together differently. Yes, we still love each other. We just love each other differently now.
Here’s a poem I wrote back in October. I’d hoped it was something I was writing to myself about myself, and a part of that holds true, but it’s actually about grieving this. The universe is funny like that—telling you what it is before you can catch up.
What We Won’t Say
Stillness sticks to the air like humidity
Weighted in emotion
I wonder if you can hear it
The quietness
strumming on chords of placidity
like the slowing of a heart before it breaks
There’s a low humming through transparent walls
And I wonder if you feel it too
The hesitation before speaking
The distance blanketed as security
The stillness is thick
Heavy with the weight of emotions
Like a nimbus cloud just before it rains
Edging its release
And now, I’m making space for the unknown and being okay without having the answers. I’m okay with the surrender and release. I’m making space for the love that builds slowly—the type of love that matches this version of me.
"Also, stop doing balloon releases. It’s really bad for the environment!!" And while we're at it the balloon arches can go too. There are so many other ways to honor your loved ones. Back to the main point... this was beautifully written. Thank you for sharing.
This was a hard read, because so much of it resonates.