Alright, let’s talk about this feeling. It’s been hanging around for a while now, this weird sense that just trying to live normally is somehow wrong, like I’m cheating on a memory.
It started subtly, you know? After the initial shock wore off, after the days where just getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain. There were long stretches where everything was just grey. Food didn’t taste like anything, music was just noise. I was just… existing. Didn’t feel right, but it felt necessary, like mourning was the only job I had.
First Cracks of Light
Then, one afternoon, months later, I was walking outside. Just walking, aimlessly. And the sun hit my face just right, a bird chirped somewhere nearby, and for a split second, I felt… okay. Not great, not happy, just… okay. Peaceful, even. And immediately, this wave of panic washed over me. How dare I? How could I feel peace when things were so fundamentally not okay?
It felt like I’d forgotten. Like that brief moment of not actively grieving was a betrayal. It felt like I was leaving them behind, stepping back into a world they weren’t part of anymore, and that felt incredibly disloyal. Unfaithful, yeah, that’s the word.
Trying to Navigate It
So, I started noticing it more. Every time I laughed genuinely at a friend’s joke, every time I got absorbed in a task at work, every time I planned something small for the future – even just what to have for dinner next week – that little voice would pipe up. “Really? You’re just moving on like that?”
- Catching myself smiling and then immediately feeling a pang of guilt.
- Avoiding things I used to enjoy because doing them alone felt wrong.
- Sometimes even forcing myself back into sadness because it felt more appropriate.
It was exhausting. It felt like I had to constantly perform grief, even to myself. I had to prove I still cared, that the absence was still a gaping hole. And enjoying anything, even momentarily, felt like trying to patch that hole, pretending it wasn’t there.
Figuring Stuff Out, Slowly
I spent a lot of time just sitting with that feeling. Didn’t fight it, just observed it. Why did feeling okay feel like infidelity? I talked it out, sometimes just to the empty room, sometimes scribbling in a notebook. Realized it wasn’t about forgetting. It wasn’t about pretending the loss didn’t happen.
It was more about understanding that carrying the sadness didn’t honour them any more than allowing myself moments of peace dishonoured them. Living, even with the pain nestled somewhere deep inside, wasn’t a betrayal. It was just… living. The memory wasn’t going anywhere. The love wasn’t fading just because I wasn’t drowning in sorrow 24/7.
It’s still a process, honestly. Some days that feeling creeps back in. But now, I recognize it. I acknowledge it, like an old, grumpy acquaintance. And then I try to gently remind myself that moving forward isn’t the same as leaving behind. It’s carrying them with me, in a different way. It doesn’t feel completely natural yet, but it feels less like being unfaithful now. It just feels… human.
