….. Grief, avoidance, and the fire of remembering
👉 I have learned a strange skill since my husband died: how to disappear from my own memories.
📍 I avoid mentioning his name in conversations. I scroll past photos without stopping. I keep certain songs locked away and certain places untouched. It is not that I do not love him anymore—if anything, it is because I love him with my soul. Loving him openly makes the grief rise too fast, too suddenly, until it steals my breath and exposes a pain I am not ready to explain to the world.
🥲 Avoidance has become my survival instinct. When reminders appear without warning, my body reacts before my mind can prepare. Tears come uninvited, and with them comes a story I cannot tell. People ask gentle questions—What happened? How did he die?—and I freeze. Some truths are too heavy to speak aloud. Some losses come wrapped in silence, not because we are ashamed of love, but because the ending is unbearable to say.
So I choose quietness instead.
✅ I have learned to live in fragments: the present moment without the past attached. I focus on small, manageable things—the rhythm of daily tasks, the safety of routine. If I stay here and keep my mind anchored to what is directly in front of me, I can function. I can breathe. I can pass through the day without collapsing under the weight of everything that was and everything that will never be again.
But grief is patient. It waits.
📌 It waits in the corners of my mind, in the spaces between thoughts. It lives in what I avoid, not only in what I remember. Even when I do not speak his name, he is still with me—in the way my heart flinches and in the way silence feels heavier than words. Avoidance does not erase love; it only delays the moment when love demands to be felt.
🥲 There is a loneliness to not being able to share the whole truth. People offer comfort, but they do not know the shape of my pain. They do not know why certain days undo me or why joy sometimes feels disloyal. They see a widow; they do not see the complexity of carrying grief that cannot be fully explained. And I do not correct them. I nod, I thank them, and I keep the deepest part of my story locked inside.
❓Sometimes I wonder if avoiding him means I am losing him twice, once to death and once to my own fear of breaking down. But I also know this: I am doing the best I can with the strength I have. Survival does not always look brave. Sometimes it looks like turning away so I can keep standing.
🙏 I hope one day I will be able to remember without collapsing. I hope his name will feel like warmth instead of fire. I hope the truth will feel lighter in my hands, even if I never place it in someone else’s. Until then, I move carefully. I protect myself the only way I know how.
❤️ Grief has taught me that love does not disappear just because it is hidden. It lives quietly and patiently, waiting for the day I am strong enough to let it speak again.
👉 And when that day comes, I hope I will forgive myself for all the moments I had to look away to survive.
Thank you, Lord, for the comforting words.
🌿 Comfort in Loss
“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.” — Matthew 5:4 (KJV)
🕊️ God Near the Brokenhearted
“The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (KJV)
🌧️ Tears Seen and Counted
“Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?” — Psalm 56:8 (KJV)
🤍 Strength for Heavy Days
“My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever.” — Psalm 73:26 (KJV)
🌅 Hope Beyond Grief
“He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3 (KJV)