Thoughts In Her Light

The Nights That Won’t Let Me Rest

I am going to be honest here.

The last few days have been hell.

I am exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix. My body is heavy, my eyes burn, but my brain will not shut off. And when I finally do fall asleep, it doesn’t give me rest- it gives me her. My mom. In those final moments I can’t forget.

I keep replaying the way her breath slowed.

The way the room felt.

The way I stood there, loving her and losing her at the same time.

That moment didn’t stay in the past. It moved into my body. Trauma does that. It settles into your chest, your breath, your nervous system. So at night, when everything is quiet, it comes back.

My mind keeps asking the same impossible question:

What if I could have stopped it?

Why Everything Feels Like Too Much

Lately I’ve had this deep urge to pull away from the world.

Not because I don’t want to live- but because everything feels too loud, too heavy, too demanding while I’m already breaking inside.

I don’t want to answer texts.

I don’t want to talk.

I don’t want to pretend I’m okay.

I love the people in my life, but even love feels heavy right now.

This is what grief does. It shrinks your emotional capacity. You’re carrying something so big inside that even small things feel overwhelming.

The Part of Me That Doesn’t Want to Move Forward Yet

There is something no one prepares you for.

Sometimes, you don’t want to feel better.

Not because you like suffering- 

but because feeling better means stepping into a world where she is really gone.

Grief is painful, but it is also where she still feels close. The memories, the ache, the tears- they keep her near. When I start to feel okay, it feels like I’m drifting further away from her.

So part of me stays here, holding on.

That isn’t weakness.

That is attachment.

Grief Oscillation – Why I Swing Between “I’m Okay” and “I’m Not”

Some days, I can get dressed.

I can talk.

I can even laugh.

And the next day, I’m back in the fog- exhausted, panicked, barely functioning.

This has a name: grief oscillation.

The nervous system moves between two worlds:

• Loss — longing, crying, missing her
  
• Life — trying to function, trying to breathe, trying to exist
  

You don’t choose one and stay there.

You swing.

Every time I feel okay again, something inside me whispers,

If you’re okay, does that mean she’s really gone?

So the grief rushes back in.

Not because I’m broken-

but because my heart is still attached.

The Panic That Comes With It

The panic doesn’t come out of nowhere.

It comes from my body remembering what my mind is trying to survive.

Cold.

Nauseous.

Racing heart.

Feeling faint.

That’s trauma surfacing.

Not because I’m weak- 

but because I loved deeply.

The Anger Underneath the Sadness

I am angry.

Angry that she had to go.

Angry that life keeps moving.

Angry that I have to keep living in a world that doesn’t have her in it.

Grief is love with nowhere to go.

Sometimes it turns into rage.

What I’m Learning to Do Instead of Fighting It

I’m not forcing myself back into normal.

And I’m not letting myself disappear into grief either.

I’m learning to live in the middle.

To cry when it hits.

To rest when I need to.

To take small steps when I can.

I remember her.

I talk about her.

I let the sadness exist.

And I let tiny pieces of life back in, because loving her means I still get to live.

What I’m Holding Onto

Right now, I’m not trying to be okay.

I’m just trying to be here.

Some days that looks like surviving.

Some days that looks like breathing.

Some days that looks like crying in the quiet.

But she is still with me- in my memories, in my heart, in the way I love.

And even now, that love is still carrying me forward.

One moment at a time.