Learning to Live With the Ache That Doesn’t Leave

 

There are aches you can’t just walk away from. The ones you carry even when you laugh too loudly at a café, or when you post pictures of sunsets that look like healing.

The ones that sit quietly under your ribs, waiting for the night to fall before they whisper again.

For me, grief never showed up like the movies, no loud sobbing on the bathroom floor, no endless rain outside my window. Mine came quietly. It stayed behind my smile, in the way I forced myself to keep moving, in the way I said “I’m fine” until I almost believed it.

And then there’s anger, not the sharp, screaming kind, but the soft one. The kind that grows when people tell you to get over it. The kind that shows up when you realize life keeps moving, even when yours feels paused. I didn’t know where to put all that. Not until I started writing.

Why I Write My Grief Down

Journaling wasn’t glamorous. It was messy, raw, and sometimes unreadable. My notebooks were filled with scribbles I’d never want anyone else to see. But those messy pages became a container for what I couldn’t say out loud.

I realized my grief had its own language. It didn’t always sound like sadness. Sometimes it sounded like rage, sometimes like silence, sometimes like nothing at all. Writing gave it permission to exist without judgment.

And in that, I learned something: writing doesn’t fix the ache. But it makes it less lonely. And sometimes, that’s enough to carry us into another day.

The Weight of Suppressed Ache

We live in a world that rewards functioning. Go to work. Show up for others. Post your happy moments. Pretend you’re okay. So many of us, especially women, become experts at carrying silent grief. We bury unspoken goodbyes, we swallow bitterness, we laugh when we want to scream. And because no one sees it, they think we’ve moved on.

But the ache doesn’t disappear when ignored. It sinks deeper. It shows up in our bodies, our sleepless nights, our distracted minds. It leaks out in small ways, sharp words, exhaustion, the kind of anger that simmers quietly under the surface.

This is what I call soft anger. Quiet grief. The emotions you carry when the world demands you be “strong.”

Why Achework Exists

I started writing Achework because I needed a place where my ache could breathe. A private place, free of judgment, free of pressure to be okay.

I realized I wasn’t the only one. So many of us are tired of suppressing the ache, tired of holding stories no one ever asked to hear. Tired of pretending we’ve healed when we’re still bleeding inside.

Achework Vol. 2: Soft Anger, Quiet Grief was born from that place. From nights I couldn’t sleep, from mornings where bitterness sat heavy in my chest, from days where people told me I looked fine while I was unraveling inside.

It holds 10 soul-opening prompts. Not polished. Not pretty. Just real. They’re designed for high-functioning women who are exhausted from being the “strong one,” the reliable one, the one who never lets herself fall apart in public.

Grief That Doesn’t Go Away

Here’s the truth: not everything can be healed with time. Some grief doesn’t go away. It changes shape. It hides in different corners of your life. And some days it feels quiet, while other days it’s as loud as ever.

I used to think that meant I was broken, that something was wrong with me because I couldn’t just “get over it.” Now I know better.

Grief is not something you outgrow. It’s something you grow around.

If This Is You…

Maybe you’ve been smiling while your chest feels heavy.

Maybe you’ve been carrying quiet rage that no one notices.

Maybe you’ve been told to just “move on,” and you hate how those words feel like another wound.

If that’s you, I want you to know this: your ache deserves space. You don’t have to rush it. You don’t have to explain it. And you definitely don’t have to carry it alone in silence.

Grief doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it hides behind your laughter. Sometimes it just waits for you to stop pretending.

Writing helped me see that. Helped me notice the patterns. Helped me release what wasn’t mine to carry anymore. And maybe, more importantly, it helped me accept the parts of grief that will always stay.

Writing has been my way of listening to it, without shame, without rushing. That’s why I created Achework Vol. 2. Not because I have all the answers, but because I know how heavy it feels to carry soft anger and quiet grief without a place to put it.

If this resonates with you, if you’re tired of keeping it all inside, I invite you to sit with the prompts I’ve written. Let them hold space for what you can’t always say out loud.

Get your copy here: Dear Strong One: Soft Anger, Quiet Grief | Achework Vol. 2