grief, always within reach

i process grief by running away from it,
so far that my feet bleed and my lungs burn.
i chase the horizon, thinking it will swallow me whole,
or that somehow, i can outrun what waits,
lurking just beyond the edges of my shadow.

there are days when i think i’ve escaped it,
when joy arrives in bursts like fireflies,
dancing in the warmth of the evening,
whispering that maybe, just maybe, i am free.
but there is something ancient about grief,
something persistent in its silence,
and when it calls, its voice echoes
in the chambers of my chest,
a low hum beneath the surface.

i thought i could outrun it.
i thought i could trick time and light
into forgetting the weight i carry,
but it doesn’t forget.
it does not forgive.
it does not rest.

now, i see it clearly:
like a shadow that walks behind me,
through moments of triumph,
its presence stretching long like dusk.
and just when i think the sun is setting,
it rises again, unexpected,
in the midst of my joy.

grief, like a storm, follows me.
but now, i see it for what it is:
not a thing to run from,
but a thing that calls me home.

it is the pulse beneath my skin,
the quiet hum that keeps me alive.
it is not an enemy,
but a companion i walk with
in the fragile silence of existence.

perhaps the question isn’t
how far i can run before it finds me,
but how much of it i can carry,
how much of it i can learn to hold
in the palm of my hand,
and still find a way to love.

for grief is not just a weight to bear—
it is the quiet teacher
that shows us how to rise,
how to breathe
when we’ve forgotten
what air feels like.

and in the end,
it isn’t the distance that matters,
but the courage to stop running,
to stop hiding,
and to let it teach us
what we need to know.

because sometimes, it’s not about escaping the storm.
it’s about learning how to stand still in it,
and finding the strength to keep walking.