There’s no straight line through grief — only spirals, echoes, and unfinished prayers.
I didn’t wake up one day and decide I was done.
It happened slowly. Quietly. A little more each time I whispered, “I’m okay,” and lied.
I carried the silence.
I carried the miscarriage.
I carried the girl who walked away without ever looking back.
And somehow, I still tried to carry myself.
Every morning, I stood up and chose life.
Some days, I chose it bitterly.
Other days, with trembling hope.
And sometimes — with something close to peace.
But even on the days I smiled… I was still carrying it.
There were good days.
Moments when I laughed, felt strong, saw light breaking through the clouds.
But grief is cruel — it lets you breathe just long enough to remember what it feels like to drown.
And I drowned often.
I tried.
God knows, I tried.
I tried to forgive. I tried to understand.
I tried to believe that healing was possible if I just held on a little longer.
But grief isn’t always a wound.
Sometimes it’s a weight.
And sometimes it’s not about finding someone to help you carry it —
it’s about realizing there’s nowhere left to put it down.
People say “talk to someone.”
I did.
I bled truth into every corner I could.
Therapists. Friends. Screens. Silence.
But no one could hold what I was carrying.
Not because they didn’t care — but because it was mine.
A coffin with no body,
a love with no future,
a goodbye that was never spoken out loud.
I did everything I knew to do.
I transformed my body.
I built a life.
I spoke my truth, even when no one answered.
I gave grace to someone who left me at my lowest.
And I gave a voice to a daughter who never took a breath.
But I am tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.
The kind that lives in your soul.
The kind that turns every sunrise into a memory of what could’ve been.
I know what people will say.
That I was strong.
That I was honest.
That I left words behind that might one day help someone else.
But none of that changes the truth:
I carried it for as long as I could.
I tried every day.
And I just couldn’t carry it anymore.
So if you’re reading this — don’t remember me by my ending.
Remember me by my effort.
By the way I kept walking with a shattered heart.
By the way I screamed into the dark and still listened for God.
By the way I loved — fully, recklessly, and without regret.
Because this was never about giving up.
It was about the weight.
And how sometimes… even the strongest hands go numb.
Samuel Schumpert