#1 ·
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we talk about "moving on." It’s a phrase we throw around so casually in conversation, like it’s a stage of recovery you eventually check off a list. "Oh, they've moved on," or "It's time to move forward." But as I get older, the more I observe people around me—and even reflect on my own life—the more that concept feels like a total fallacy. You don't move on from a foundational loss; you just sort of learn to carry the weight of it until your muscles get stronger.
There is this specific type of grief that doesn't feel like a temporary storm passing through. It feels more like a change in the climate. It’s not that the sadness goes away, it’s that the world itself feels fundamentally different. It's like living in a house where a major piece of furniture has been removed. You can still walk through the rooms, you can still host dinners, and you can even laugh at a joke, but there is this permanent, gaping space in the corner of your eye that reminds you something essential is missing.
I find it fascinating, and honestly a bit heartbreaking, how a single person's absence can redefine an entire person's creative or professional output. We see it in artists all the time, where a sudden void seems to inject a new, perhaps darker or more profound, depth into their work. It makes me wonder if we can ever truly be the same "version" of ourselves once we've experienced a massive, life-altering loss. Does the grief become a core part of your personality, or is it something you try to keep tucked away in a drawer?
I have a friend who lost her partner several years ago. For the first year, she was unrecognizable—a shell of herself. But then, something strange happened. She didn't "get over it," but she integrated the loss. She started writing poetry that was raw and devastatingly beautiful, and she became more empathetic toward strangers in a way that felt almost spiritual. The loss didn't just take something away; it added a layer of complexity to her soul that wasn't there before. It’s a strange paradox: the thing that broke her also seems to have rebuilt her into someone more profound.
Then there's the social aspect of it. There's this unspoken pressure to "return to normal." When you lose someone who was your primary witness to life—the person who knew your coffee order, your darkest fears, and your most mundane daily habits—the "normal" world feels incredibly alien. You go to a grocery store or sit in a meeting, and everyone is acting like the sun is still shining exactly the same way it was before your world collapsed. That disconnect can be incredibly isolating. It makes you feel like you're living in a different dimension than the rest of society.
I also wonder about the long-term implications for our relationships. When you've experienced a loss that fundamentally shifts your perspective on mortality and connection, how do you look at new people? Do you become more guarded, terrified of the inevitable, or do you become more intense, trying to squeeze every drop of meaning out of every interaction because you know how fragile it all is?
It feels like we are all just walking collections of our experiences, and the most heavy, unchangeable experiences are the ones that define our edges. I don't think we ever truly "recover" in the sense of returning to a baseline. We just evolve. We become a new version of ourselves that is shaped by the shape of the hole left behind.
Do you think it's possible to ever truly find a "new normal," or are we always just navigating the ripples of our greatest losses?
There is this specific type of grief that doesn't feel like a temporary storm passing through. It feels more like a change in the climate. It’s not that the sadness goes away, it’s that the world itself feels fundamentally different. It's like living in a house where a major piece of furniture has been removed. You can still walk through the rooms, you can still host dinners, and you can even laugh at a joke, but there is this permanent, gaping space in the corner of your eye that reminds you something essential is missing.
I find it fascinating, and honestly a bit heartbreaking, how a single person's absence can redefine an entire person's creative or professional output. We see it in artists all the time, where a sudden void seems to inject a new, perhaps darker or more profound, depth into their work. It makes me wonder if we can ever truly be the same "version" of ourselves once we've experienced a massive, life-altering loss. Does the grief become a core part of your personality, or is it something you try to keep tucked away in a drawer?
I have a friend who lost her partner several years ago. For the first year, she was unrecognizable—a shell of herself. But then, something strange happened. She didn't "get over it," but she integrated the loss. She started writing poetry that was raw and devastatingly beautiful, and she became more empathetic toward strangers in a way that felt almost spiritual. The loss didn't just take something away; it added a layer of complexity to her soul that wasn't there before. It’s a strange paradox: the thing that broke her also seems to have rebuilt her into someone more profound.
Then there's the social aspect of it. There's this unspoken pressure to "return to normal." When you lose someone who was your primary witness to life—the person who knew your coffee order, your darkest fears, and your most mundane daily habits—the "normal" world feels incredibly alien. You go to a grocery store or sit in a meeting, and everyone is acting like the sun is still shining exactly the same way it was before your world collapsed. That disconnect can be incredibly isolating. It makes you feel like you're living in a different dimension than the rest of society.
I also wonder about the long-term implications for our relationships. When you've experienced a loss that fundamentally shifts your perspective on mortality and connection, how do you look at new people? Do you become more guarded, terrified of the inevitable, or do you become more intense, trying to squeeze every drop of meaning out of every interaction because you know how fragile it all is?
It feels like we are all just walking collections of our experiences, and the most heavy, unchangeable experiences are the ones that define our edges. I don't think we ever truly "recover" in the sense of returning to a baseline. We just evolve. We become a new version of ourselves that is shaped by the shape of the hole left behind.
Do you think it's possible to ever truly find a "new normal," or are we always just navigating the ripples of our greatest losses?