The Loneliness No One Talks About
No one really talks about the kind of loneliness that follows grief.
Not the kind where you’re just “alone” in a room — but the kind where you feel alone in your soul.
The kind that creeps in when you’ve lost your people. Your anchor. Your father. Your friends. Your sense of safety. Yourself.
It’s a strange kind of loneliness.
The kind where even in a crowded space, you feel invisible.
The kind where you don’t want to be around anyone — not because you hate them, but because they just don’t get it.
They don’t see what you’ve endured.
They don’t see how hard it is to even wake up some days, to smile through the hollow, to pretend you're “okay” when you’re barely holding on.
And when they do speak, it’s not to understand — it’s to point out what you’re doing wrong.
As if they know the weight of your silence.
As if they’ve walked barefoot through the ashes of everything you’ve lost.
All I really want is someone to say,
"It’s okay. I see you. I’m not going anywhere. Even if you’re not okay. Even if you fail. I’ll still love you."
I want to feel held — not fixed.
Heard — not corrected.
Loved — not judged.
I miss everyone I’ve lost.
I miss the friends who faded.
The ones I pushed away in my own confusion.
I miss my father — and every moment I never said “I love you” enough.
I wish I could hug them all again, tell them how sorry I am, and how much I needed them to stay.
But they’re gone, and I’m still here, trying to pick up pieces of a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.
People tell you to move on.
But no one tells you how.
No one tells you what to do when you’ve forgotten how to feel like yourself again.
No one tells you how to stop missing the version of you that felt whole.
It’s been two years.
And I’m still not okay.
But maybe that’s okay, too.
Because I’m starting to believe that healing isn’t about going back —
It’s about slowly, gently becoming someone new.
Someone who carries the past, but doesn’t drown in it.
Someone who learns to live with the sun and the shadows.
Someone who can feel the ache and still hold space for hope.
This loneliness — it’s always there.
Like the sun in our galaxy — sometimes hidden behind clouds, but always present.
But maybe, just maybe… I can start learning how to live with it, instead of fighting it.
Maybe the love I’m looking for from others…
I can start giving it to the girl inside me who’s still fighting, even when she’s tired.
To Papa
I miss you more than words will ever say.
Some nights I just whisper “I love you” into the air, hoping it reaches you somehow.
I hope you’re proud of me — even though I’m messy, even though I break down, even though I’m still figuring it all out.
I carry you with me. Always.
To the ones I lost but still love
If you ever think of me, I hope you feel my heart holding onto you.
I’m sorry for the things left unsaid. I still love you. I always will.
To the version of me who's still healing
I’m not giving up on you.
You are not too broken.
You are not too late.
You are becoming — and that’s something to be proud of.
You don’t have to be okay to be worthy of love.
What if today, you simply let yourself be loved — as you are, not as you “should” be?
Comments
Post a Comment