The Grief Coaster: Dual Tracks

Grief is some weird shit. You can be this person one minute. Or one night. Or one day. Or one whole week, even. Surrounded by friends, laughing, sharing a piece of bacon (hey, it’s bacon), bonding with people who mean the world to you.





And then it socks you in the gut, strikes you when you feel a baby kick, and you realize that you are still just as fragile as you were on the first day, just as fragile as you will be tomorrow and every day after this.

Maybe nobody notices as the tears stream quietly down your face and the knife twists in your heart. They confuse the smile on your face for happiness when it’s a mix of pain from the loss you’ve suffered and a grimace at what you’re trying to hide. Maybe nobody sees you leave the room when you can’t keep it together. Maybe nobody knows you were crumpled on the shower floor that morning or that you curled up next to your daughter and cried as she fell asleep that night. Maybe nobody hears your son tell you about his “sad.” But, you know.