The Grief We Keep Postponing

 

Grief is one of the nastiest emotions we have to deal with from the moment we’re born until the day we’re buried six feet underground.

When we were born, we didn’t come with a manual. Our parents raised us based on how they were raised—through habit, culture, what they saw, what they knew, and within their own limits.

When they raised us, they taught us about emotions through whatever parenting approach they had. But grief? It was never properly introduced. No one really showed us how to regulate it or how to deal with it. Most of the time, we were just told to keep going and suck it up. We weren’t equipped to express it, let alone understand it. Maybe that’s why we’re so handicapped when we try to deal with it.

I’m not going to be another asshole smart-ass comparing my problems to others. Everybody has their own baggage. And most of the time, that baggage is filled with grief that was never properly unpacked.

And no, it’s not only about your abandonment issues, Karen. It’s much more than that.

The day we betray ourselves, there’s grief in it.

The day someone significant dismisses us, there’s grief in it.

The day we choose option A instead of B, there’s grief in it.

We tend to park this emotion somewhere deep until something heats us up enough. And when it finally explodes, we’re not only hurting ourselves, but also the people around us—especially the ones closest to us, the ones who try to support us.

Because we’re not equipped to deal with grief, we often come out strong, harsh, and act like we don’t give a single fuck about anything we say or do. What we actually want is simple: validation. But we want it without explaining ourselves clearly.

“I lost a job.”

“I lost my best friend.”

“I lost my grandpa/grandma.”

“I’m dealing with my past wounds.”

“I’m struggling to stay afloat—not only financially, but in other aspects too.”

“I got divorced.”

“I just broke up with my partner.”

“I’m failing at school/college/work.”

“I’m losing myself.”

“I feel lost.”

“I can’t explain how or why, but I am beyond tired and exhausted.”

“I don’t feel like I have a purpose anymore.”

“It’s hard to see my reflection in the mirror.”

“My self-confidence hit rock bottom.”

“I’m too self-conscious to turn on my camera during an online meeting.”

When we don’t have someone to hold on to during this grieving time, life feels heavier than it already is.

Intrusive thoughts, the craving for comfort, acknowledgment, and validation—they all start chasing each other. We become defensive. Everything and everyone starts to feel like a threat, even when they’re actually trying to understand us.

And that’s human.

People will understand.

As long as we communicate it.

For more than a decade, I’ve been postponing my grief. I hurt people as much as I hurt myself. And it’s a living hell.

By the time I finally learned how to deal with it, not many people were still willing to stand beside me. For a while, having them there felt like a necessity. Then I had to learn something else, at the same time—I wasn’t the only one grieving. They had their own timelines, their own weight. And I made sure they knew I would be there for them, through everything.

I stopped romanticizing the idea that I had to be the strongest one. For me, learning how to deal with grief meant letting go of that identity.

I opened up. I became vulnerable. I put down the armor.

I chose to trust people again.

And when that trust broke me, I took the time to understand the how and the why.

Not perfectly, of course. There’s no such thing as perfect anyway.

But do I still grieve?

Yes. From time to time.

Now, I sit with it. And I start the conversation like this:

“We gotta unpack this, bruh… because life still needs to move forward. There are duties and responsibilities. We still have to function—for the people we care about. I care about us, about you, so let’s talk about this. Let’s set a timeline.”

Grief would smile, nod, and say something like:

“But you do realize I don’t have an exact timeline, right? I can come back into your life when you least expect it. How’s that?”

“I hear you. What about prevention? Or at least a warning? Can we establish some kind of agreement?”

“Let’s try.”

And that’s how I negotiate with my grief. Because I agree—grief doesn’t have a timeline. It can come back whenever it wants.

I don’t expect the people I care about to deal with grief the same way I do. But I think they already know how far I’m willing to go for them.

Grief has always been a playground for me.

Not a nice one.

But I’ve learned how to survive it, again and again.

I still grieve my teenage years.

I still grieve my failed marriage.

I still grieve my grandparents.

I still grieve both of my fathers—biological and stepfather.

I still grieve my mum’s past wounds.

I still grieve my siblings’ difficult times.

I still grieve my best friends’ baggage.

Hell, I still grieve my reckless decisions from last month.

But I’ve learned how to negotiate with it, so at least I can still function and carry on with my responsibilities.

Don’t get lost while you’re grieving.

No one will come and save you.

That’s your job—from day one until you’re buried six feet underground.