After my brother James died, people moved on. They assumed I had too. I don’t know that they knew what to say anymore. Either way, they stopped asking. I was forgotten. I wasn’t bitter. I wasn’t unapproachable. I was grieving alone, waiting for someone to remember I was still here.

No one came.

I felt forgotten.

When I did finally process that grief, years later, some people acted like I was doing it wrong. Like I should’ve handled it by now. Like my pain was an inconvenience, a problem to solve, a sign that something was broken in me.

It wasn’t that I needed advice. It wasn’t that I needed fixing. I just needed someone to stay. To ask. To sit with me and let me feel what I was feeling without telling me how to feel it.

That would’ve made all the difference in the world.

So if no one has asked you lately, I see you. You’re not forgotten. And you’re not as alone as you feel.

Some of us want to hear. Some of us want to sit with you and feel your pain. Not fix it. Just be there. Be there for you.

This post? It’s for you.

Sometimes what people refer to as resilience is actually unprocessed sorrow.

Because we celebrate the person who bounces back quickly. It’s the one who doesn’t dwell. Who soldiers on, shows up, and keeps it together at least on the surface. And we call that strength.

But sometimes that bounce isn’t healing. It’s avoidance, wearing a mask of social acceptability, hiding from the pain.

I know what this is like. I’ve lived both versions.

When James died, he was eighteen. A fatal car accident. I tried to be resilient. I pushed through. I stayed busy. I performed normalcy because that’s what strong people did. Our culture rewards it. Nobody ever had to feel uncomfortable around me, because ‘I got this.’

It took years to unpack what I’d buried. Delayed grief? It’s a debt that collects more interest than 35% APR credit card! Emotional debt isn’t something that remains uncollected.

When Jude died, I made a different choice. I chose to feel it; all of it. Like it or not. The pain. The hurt. Loss. Sadness. Whatever the emotion was? I was going to feel it. No matter what. There were no shortcuts. No performing feats of emotional strength for someone else’s comfort.

I didn’t do it well. At least I don’t think I did. I wasn’t composed. It definitely wasn’t dignified. But I refused to pretend everything was okay when my whole world abruptly stopped.

It was my most painful, hardest emotional experience.

But I moved through my grief instead of pushing through it.

That’s the difference.

Pushing through treats grief like an obstacle to get past. Moving through it, on the other hand, treats it like the rocky, unfamiliar cliffs you have to actually walk on, taking one precarious step at a time. One prioritizes speed and appearance. The other? Prioritizes honesty and vulnerability.

You can’t skip the middle section.

But you can delay it.

Eventually, it will catch up to you.

Facing pain that immense isn’t passive. It’s an act of will. That act itself takes more courage than powering through it ever did. You have to trust that you’ll survive feeling the full emotional weight of grief.

But here’s what I didn’t expect.  

Gratitude.

Today I’m thankful. Blessed by the people who watched me grieve, standing by, and refused to look away from my pain. These are the people who asked how I was doing, instead of assuming I was unapproachable. Instead of deciding I must be bitter, broken, too far gone to reach, or needed a class to tell me how I needed to feel and grieve.

For these folks, my grief wasn’t a problem to solve or a mood to wait out. They sat. And they stayed, listening to me. They gave me room to answer their questions; honestly. They sat quietly, waiting for me to heal. Not prying. Not telling me how I felt, or saying I was still grieving. They waited for me, loving me right where I was.

That alone mattered more than they’ll ever know.

Because of the time I spent processing how I felt and because people walked alongside me while I did, I’ve been able to move forward in an emotionally healthy way. Not stuck. Not numb. Not pretending.

James taught me what happens when you try to outrun grief. It waits, lurking around the next corner to attack you.

Jude taught me what happens when you turn and face it. It eventually lets you walk forward, but not without feeling it all.

Both losses are part of my story now. Not as weights. More like ground I’ve stepped foot on.

And there’s life here. Real life. Joy, I never thought I’d feel again. Not because I forgot James and Jude, but because I finally let myself remember, without drowning.

If you’re carrying something you haven’t let yourself feel yet, it’s not too late.

And if someone you love is grieving? Don’t wait for them to ask. Just sit with them. Just stay.