#11 Summer of Grief — Grief Is Something Bigger Than Two
Not having the time to write is a convenient excuse — and, truthfully, I’ve missed it, the ritual of writing every day. But I’ve also come to realise how nearly impossible that is — unless you’re willing to shut yourself away from the world, which I’m not. These past few days, I’ve spent a lot of time with friends. Writing fell to the side, quietly, without protest. And eventually I allowed myself to accept it: that it’s okay not to write. That sometimes you have to be surrounded by people, by the chaos and tenderness of life happening around you. That, too, is part of it — the inspiration. It doesn’t all have to be contained in a rigid frame.
The past few days were marked by love and the quiet support of friends. On Friday, I read a piece aloud for the first time. The room was unbearably warm, and on stage, even more so, I could feel the sweat sliding down from my scalp, a slow descent. Still, it was a good experience. Nerve-wracking, yes, but meaningful too, to share something of yourself with others. And most of all, it was their presence that mattered. The friends who showed up. The feeling of not having to do it alone.
The days that followed, friends of my boyfriend came to visit. They brought with them a kind of warmth too, easy, affectionate, open. I remembered how, in a past relationship, that kind of exchange never really existed. For years, there was this quiet distance between our lives, our circles. It’s still new to me, this feeling of being included in someone else’s world, being welcomed into the web of people they love.
And maybe that’s what love is; something bigger than the private thing between two people. It extends. It includes. It reaches toward the people they care about, and soon you care about them too, almost without noticing. And you don’t want to let go of any of it. Grieving, then, might mean that both my partner and I miss people who once belonged only to our separate lives, but who are now part of something shared, woven into the fabric of us. And we care for them, both of us, equally. The ones who welcome us, who see us for who we are, and love us still.
That sense of belonging — to one person, to their people — feels like reassurance. Like something steady. As though life itself is shaped not just by love between two, but by all the quiet gestures of those who want to be loved, and who, in return, want to offer it — especially to those they hold dear, but also to those who matter to the people they love.
