Tonight, I was meant to step into the circle of shared sorrow, to immerse myself among those who walk the same aching path. Invited to a local ministry group of GriefShare, I was supposed to find support in numbers, comfort in empathetic faces who nod and tear with understanding.

Yet, as the hour approached, so did the shadows, stretching long and foreboding across my pathway.

So, I didn’t go.

In the quiet solitude of my home, I curled into the familiar arms of silence. No chattering voices, no exchanged glances of pity or sympathy, just the rhythmic pulse of my own heart—a heart that’s still learning how to beat again without her.

Kay.

Her name hangs in the air around me like an echo frozen in time.

I typed a quick email to the group leader, offering a feeble “I will try again next week,” the words curling around me like a shroud of both promise and dread. But this week, this day, I was unable to cross that threshold.

Each time I even think to step onto that path, a tide of resistance pulls me back. I recoil at the prospect of audibly speaking her story, narrating my trauma, raw and exposed, laid bare before those who never saw her dance in the sunlight or heard her sleepy sighs.

I cannot summon the will to paint my grief into sounds, cannot allow the memories to be dissected and analyzed as if they were mere anecdotes in a stranger’s tale.

In this cocoon of night, my heart continues its hesitant rhythm, each beat a reminder of her and the love that was and is.

One day, perhaps, I’ll gather courage, wrap it around me like armor and step into the circle.

For now, I remain here in my chosen solitude, holding on to memories, holding on to my sweet girl, and trying to bear the weight of unfathomable feelings that I cannot yet share.