A Quiet Kind of Grief

this morning, I came across a post from a colleague. She wrote about losing her baby.

I sat there for a while, reading every word. My heart broke for her. I can’t imagine the weight of carrying a life, only to have to say goodbye before ever getting the chance to know them.

And then, almost immediately, I felt sad for myself too.

It felt strange admitting that. Almost unfair.

Because how do you grieve for something you’ve never had?

I’ve never seen two lines on a pregnancy test. I’ve never heard a heartbeat through an ultrasound. I’ve never had a miscarriage. There isn’t a date on the calendar that marks a loss, because there was never a beginning to lose.

Yet somehow, there is still grief.

Not the grief of losing a child, because I know those are two different kinds of pain. I would never pretend they are the same.

This grief is quieter.

It lives in the months that begin with hope and end with another period. In the questions people ask without thinking. In the way I catch myself wondering what our child would have looked like whenever I see my husband laughing. In every birthday and anniversary that quietly reminds me that time keeps moving, even when a dream feels like it’s standing still.

This year, my husband and I are on our way to six years of marriage.

Six years isn’t a measure of how much we love each other. If anything, we’ve learned to love each other in ways we never expected. We’ve learned that marriage isn’t only about celebrating what comes easily. Sometimes it’s about learning how to carry what never arrives.

People often imagine waiting as something active…counting days, making plans, crossing off milestones.

But this kind of waiting is mostly invisible.

You still go to work. You answer emails. You laugh with friends over coffee. You celebrate other people’s babies because you genuinely are happy for them. And somehow, in the quiet moments between ordinary days, you carry a question that has no timeline.

Maybe that’s why my colleague’s words stayed with me.

Her grief had a name.

Mine is harder to explain.

But perhaps both were born from the same place: love. One from loving someone she had to let go of. The other from loving someone I haven’t had the chance to meet.

I don’t know if that someone will ever exist outside my imagination.

I only know that, somehow, I’ve been loving them for a long time.

the art of overthinking someone else’s footwear

 there’s this funny little system we all seem to agree on-see someone’s shoes, assign them a whole backstory. suddenly they’re “trying too hard,” “too curated,” or “a bit pretentious,” all from a two-second glance. no interview, no context, just confidence... We really out here making full personality conclusions in seconds.

and the wild part is, everyone kind of agrees. like yes, obviously, those are “mountain shoes”… being worn to a coffee shop (iykyk)

but then what about running shoes? are they training for a marathon or just grabbing lunch? what about those super technical-looking pairs people wear everywhere-are they exploring nature or just trying to survive the walk from the parking lot? the logic gets blurry real fast.

it’s lowkey impressive how we can turn something as simple as footwear into a full narrative arc-character development, setting, even assumed hobbies. all from a pair of shoes. honestly, the conclusions be jumping a little too fast..

but at the same time, you can’t even be mad at it. it’s just how people make quick sense of the world, filling in gaps with whatever stories feel familiar. still, it does make you wonder-how often are we completely off? how often is someone just… walking, not performing?

maybe the kinder (and slightly less dramatic) take is that most people aren’t trying to be anything. they’re just choosing what works, what feels right, what they can afford. not everything is a statement. sometimes it’s just… shoes doing their job, whether that’s climbing a mountain, sitting in a café, or navigating sidewalks that feel like an obstacle course.

blurred

I thought I was done for today.

After ten years of silence, one post felt like enough. Nostalgic. Safe. Controlled. I closed the tab thinking, okay, that’s it. I’m back.

But apparently, coming back to a space you abandoned for a decade means you don’t get to perform. You just write what’s sitting with you.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about presence. About how easy it is to disappear in subtle ways. Not dramatically. Not tragically. Just quietly.

And maybe that’s why I’m writing this.

I get that everyone moves differently.

Some people think out loud. Some people speak fast. Some people need to sound certain in a room.

And I’m not mad. I’m not even trying to compete.

It’s just strange how something can start as a shared conversation, and then somehow it lands as someone else’s certainty.

 I know I contributed. I know I did the thinking. I know the concerns weren’t random.

But when they’re said without me, I feel a little… edited out.

Not erased. Just blurred.

Maybe this isn’t about credit.

Maybe it’s about wanting to feel visible in something I helped shape.

I don’t need applause.

I just don’t want to feel like the draft while someone else reads the final version.

And I can understand someone’s urgency without making myself smaller in the process