Grief. It’s a word that doesn’t feel big enough to contain the heaviness that settles in your chest when someone you love is no longer physically here.

I sat in my mother’s living room, folding myself into the familiar ache of responsibility and sadness, surrounded by the quiet sniffles and loud chatter of family.

Everyone was arriving, one by one, drawn together by a tragic event none of us could escape. I should have felt something definite. Some kind of closure or understanding. But instead, it felt like I was floating in some warped timeline, oscillating between the impossible present and the gentle, untouchable past, where Kay was still alive. Where she was still just Kay.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the one who takes care of others. The fixer. The listener. The one who smooths rough edges and makes plans when no one else can bring themselves to. It’s a role I wear like a second skin, one I have never really questioned – until now.

Because as I sat there, staring at the familiar framed photographs on the walls, all I could think was: I don’t know how to both grieve and carry everyone else’s weight at the same time.

And yet, there I was. Checking on everyone. Planning meals. Offering hugs. Whispering affirmations of “It’s okay to cry.” But it felt like a script. An automatic response. I kept going because there was no other option for me.

Inside, I was exhausted. Overwhelmed. Haunted by a reality that still didn’t feel real.

It’s strange how our minds protect us. Even as I sat there, surrounded by the logistics of grief – have I notified everyone I should have? When are we meeting at the funeral home to pick out her casket? The details that made everything so maddeningly final – I couldn’t quite catch up to the truth.

Some part of me was still stuck in the past, in moments we had with Kay. The sound of her laughter ringing through the house. The way she used to giggle at my jokes, and make fun of my cooking skills.

Those memories felt like a safe place, even as they twisted the knife of loss deeper into my gut. I’d find myself staring out the window, half-expecting to hear her voice or see her walking through the door.

The house seemed smaller without her energy, quieter in a way that wasn’t comforting. It didn’t feel real. None of it.

It was the guilt. That unavoidable whisper in the back of my mind that told me I didn’t deserve to be overwhelmed because other people had it worse. Because my role in recent years has been from a considerable distance away in a completely different state.

I missed a lot of really important moments when I should have been there.

But grief doesn’t play by any rules. It sneaks in when you least expect it. In my mother’s living room, I realized that my suffering wasn’t just about missing Kay – it was also about feeling like I had let everyone down. That I had failed as a parent, a daughter, and a sister.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to go back in time and freeze every moment with her so I could play it on repeat forever. But I couldn’t do any of those things. Instead, I sat there and sipped a cup of now cold coffee.

My head was pounding.

The thing about grief is that it’s relentless. It chips away at the illusion of control you’ve built for yourself until you’re raw and aching.

I kept thinking about the week ahead. The questions I have no answers to. The emotional mountain I was about to climb.

I prayed hard, “Lord, I’m not strong enough…”