The grief I could not set down

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