Nobody talks about how exhausting grief can be.

The sleepless nights, the unanswered questions in your mind.

The struggle to switch off. To think of anything other than you.

Reliving the nightmare of losing you. The tears — so many tears, nights of crying yourself to sleep.

The feeling of the absolute weight of the world on your shoulders whilst you are trying to function with a broken heart.

Nobody talks about how exhausting it is to try and figure out this new way of life. A life without you.

Forever and always

 

My mother‑in‑law passed away suddenly on late Thursday, June 11. We found out late Friday afternoon. It was a shock, one we have been processing since. She was too young, at 78.

Grief has a way of moving through a person the same way weather moves across Newfoundland — sudden in some moments, slow and fog‑thick in others. Even when you know a storm is coming, the air still changes when it finally arrives. One day, one process, at a time…There is so much to do, but we will manage as we always do: together.

Over the next while, my husband and I will be tending to the arrangements she put in place long ago, following the path she left for us like a well‑marked trail. We were at the funeral home yesterday, went over the arrangements she had made, and the processes have been started. There’s comfort in that, but there’s still the ache of it — the way the world feels a little quieter, like the harbour on a still morning when the boats haven’t started moving yet.

Because of all this, I’ll be stepping back for a bit from writing.

I need some time to let the waves settle, to sit with the weight of things, and to support my husband as we navigate this part of the shoreline together. Grief asks you to slow your pace, to breathe with the tides instead of pushing against them, and I want to honour that.

Thank you for your patience and understanding while I take this pause. I’ll return when the weather inside me clears a little, and I can find my footing again.