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Grief is a grind. It is the work of breathing and waking and rising and moving through a world that feels emptier. A gaping
hole has been torn into your existence, and everyone around you just walks right past it like it’s not even there.
The curtains are hung with hurt here.
The walls I’ve built to contain my feelings are falling. It’s not a wrecking ball that starts the demolition. It begins with a tremor, a realization that love happens in the fragile context of our mortality. That love and life occur just beyond the reach of our control.
