Grief, My Bestie

I have lost the six souls I loved most on this earth.

So I know grief.

Not as a stranger.

Not as a thief.

But as a shadow who walked me home.

At first, I didn’t call it grief.

I called it anger.

I called it justice.

I called it every name but its own.

But grief…grief was patient.

It waited.

It sat with me when no one else dared to.

And then one day, I understood.

Grief was never here to destroy me.

It was love, still burning in my chest with no body left to hold.

It was the echo of devotion, the proof that bonds do not vanish—they simply change form.

I realized I hurt so deeply only because I had loved so deeply.

The measure of grief is the measure of love.

Do I miss them? Of course.Every day. But absence is not the end. They walk with me still.

They live in my marrow.

They whisper in my dreams.

They rise in the quiet moments when my heart beats their names.

The harder we love, the harder we hurt.

This is not cruelty.

This is the covenant of life.

For to love at all is to stand at the edge of loss—to know, from the very first hello, that goodbye waits at the door.

And yet—we choose it anyway.

We risk the wound because love is worth the breaking.

Because pain is the shadow of meaning.

Because grief itself is holy, a secret language between souls that never stops speaking.

So now, grief is not my curse.

It is my companion.

My reminder.

I dared to love without armour, without fear.

And just like that—grief became my bestie.