Grief is something
we all know.
We grieve the people we lose,
the people still alive
who are no longer in our lives,
the pets who once slept beside us,
the places we can never return to,
and sometimes—
we grieve ourselves.
I grieve who I used to be.
I grieve the little girl
who didn't know how cruel the world could be.
The five-year-old me
who only knew Barbie dolls,
dinosaurs,
running through the park
with friends,
coming home when the sun went down
with scraped knees
and a heart that didn't know
what it meant to be afraid.
She didn't know
what heartbreak felt like.
She didn't know
that some people leave.
That some people stay
and still hurt you.
She didn't know
that sometimes
the person you have to survive
is yourself.
She didn't know
how much growing up
would cost.
And I miss her.
God, I miss her.
Because every experience
changes us.
Every mistake,
every heartbreak,
every goodbye,
every moment we thought
we wouldn't survive—
leaves something behind.
We aren't the same person
we were yesterday.
And tomorrow
will take something from us
and give something else in return.
We are constantly becoming.
But sometimes
I don't want to become.
Sometimes I want to go back.
Back to the girl
who had so much joy
and didn't have to question
whether she deserved it.
Back to the girl
who had hope
without having to fight for it.
Back to the girl
who didn't know
what she would eventually lose.
And for a moment,
when I remember her,
I smile.
Then I remember—
I can never go back.
And that's where the grief begins.
Because I reach for those memories
like they're a rope
hanging over the edge of everything
I've ever lost.
I wrap my hands around it.
I hold tighter.
And tighter.
Because somewhere in my mind
I've convinced myself
that if I let go,
I lose her.
I lose myself.
But my hands begin to burn.
The skin begins to peel.
They bleed.
And still—
I hold on.
Because sometimes
we would rather bleed
holding onto the past
than accept that the past
is already gone.
That's grief.
But maybe—
healing is harder.
Because healing means
loosening your grip.
It means looking at the little girl
you used to be
and saying,
"I love you."
"I miss you."
"But I can't live back there."
And maybe that's the part
that scares me most.
Because if I let go,
who am I?
If I stop hurting for her,
does that mean I stopped loving her?
If I stop looking backward,
does that mean
I'm leaving her behind?
But maybe healing
isn't leaving her behind.
Maybe it's carrying her forward.
Maybe I don't have to erase
the memories.
Maybe I don't have to forget
the person I was.
Maybe I can remember
without drowning.
Maybe I can look back
and smile
without begging the past
to take me back.
Because life doesn't stop.
It never stops spinning
for anyone.
Not for the people we lose.
Not for the people who leave.
Not for the versions of ourselves
we can never become again.
And maybe that's okay.
Maybe the girl I miss
was never meant to stay
five years old forever.
Maybe she was meant
to grow.
To learn.
To hurt.
To love.
To lose.
To fall apart.
To find God.
To find herself
in pieces
and slowly put them back together.
Maybe I don't have to become
who I was.
Maybe I only have to become
someone she would recognize.
Someone she would be proud of.
Someone who can finally tell her,
"You don't have to hold on anymore."
"I've got you."
And maybe one day
I'll remember everything—
the good,
the bad,
the beautiful,
the painful—
and I'll feel that familiar ache
in my chest.
I'll smile.
I'll miss it.
I'll grieve it.
And then—
I'll let it pass.
Because memories
were never meant
to be prisons.
They are pieces of us.
And I can keep the pieces
without letting them
keep me.
So no—
healing doesn't mean
I stopped grieving.
It means I've learned
how to live alongside it.
It means I can remember
without returning.
It means I can love
who I was
without abandoning
who I am.
And maybe letting go
was never losing myself.
Maybe—
letting go
is how I finally find myself.