The Weight of Grief and the Hope of Rediscovery
I watched life pass me by for a year. I lived a year dissociated from my reality—alive, but not truly living. I was broken and desperately trying to fix myself until I simply stopped trying. I was sad, unmotivated, and depressed.
I spent the year crying, grieving the life I could have had. I envisioned a life I could be living; I worked so hard for it, and tried to manifest it, but eventually, this didn’t work out and I had to let go of it all, dream by dream.
I was so fixated on what I thought my life should be that I couldn’t appreciate the life I was actually living—not that it was much to appreciate, honestly. –
If you live in Nigeria you probably know a bit about this.
But while I was grieving what I could have had, I lost a lot.
I lost relationships, opportunities, and friends. Material things would go missing all the time. I lost interest in reading and writing. I lost my faith, my joy, my laughter—but most of all, I lost myself.
I disappeared into a cloud so thick that much of that time feels like a blur. Every day was a performance, just to show up and get through. I’m grateful I had a reason to perform—my siblings, friends, and colleagues. Without them, I would have drowned completely in my grief.
But I guess my performance wasn’t Oscar-worthy because, in the midst of my sadness, I still had to say goodbye to other relationships, opportunities and friendships. I couldn’t explain why I wasn’t myself, why I had retreated so deeply into my pain that I had forgotten who I was.
What hurt the most was that I wasn’t given the grace I so desperately needed. Instead of understanding or patience, I was met with distance, frustration, and sometimes silence.
I couldn’t blame them entirely—how could they support someone who couldn’t even explain what they were going through? But it still stung, deeply, to watch those relationships slip away.
I wish they had seen that I wasn’t choosing to withdraw, that I was drowning in grief I didn’t know how to articulate. Losing those connections made the weight of my sadness even heavier.
It’s a wound I’m still learning to heal from, but it’s taught me the importance of both giving and receiving grace during life’s hardest moments.
Lately, I’ve felt a sudden burst of happiness out of nowhere, but it terrifies me.
I’m scared it will slip away again. I’m so used to being sad that I’m not even sure I deserve good things to happen to me. And yet, here I am, holding on tightly to this fragile glimmer of hope.
This glimmer of hope didn’t announce itself loudly. For me, it began quietly—just a faint ray in the fog that had enveloped me all year long.
It started with an event I didn’t expect: a night of dancing—a night filled with attention, alcohol, and a string of questionable decisions.
A year had passed where I couldn’t move to music—my body felt disconnected, unable to respond to even the liveliest beats. I remember standing still at my birthday and my friend’s wedding, the music playing, and yet, I couldn’t bring myself to sway, to move, to let go. It was as though my body and soul were both weighed down and had forgotten joy altogether.
But on this night, the music broke through. I danced—not perfectly, but freely.
My body responded, not just to the rhythm, but to something deeper, something I thought was long gone.
I danced. I laughed. I sang along. It felt like the thick fog that had consumed me was finally pierced, if only for a moment.
Each step on that dance floor shed away bits of the heavy cloak I’d been carrying, and I realized that I could feel again. I could feel something other than grief and sadness. I could experience joy and connection, no matter how fleeting.
The music pierced through the silence I’d grown accustomed to, and with it came the tiniest spark of joy. That glimmer of hope grew from there.
The next morning, I woke up crying as I had every day. But this time, it was different. The tears weren’t just for loss—they were for the relief of feeling something again. That glimmer of hope stayed with me, growing little by little.
I started to see myself enjoying things I hadn’t in a long time—singing along to a tune, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. I’m not there yet—maybe I’ll never fully be “there.” But I’m learning to let go of what could have been and embrace what is.
It’s a slow process, shedding grief one layer at a time. Some days, the weight feels lighter; other days, it’s unbearable. But that glimmer of hope is still there, reminding me that I’m more than my sadness.
It’s interesting, rediscovering myself—finding joy in the small things, re-learning who I am, and allowing myself to dream again.
And for now, I’ll let the sun shine on my face and hold on to the hope that this is only the beginning.
This glimmer of hope is small, but it’s growing, and that makes all the difference.
With So Much Love, Deborah
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