You didn’t forget how to grieve.
You were taught to stop. 

You were born into this world knowing exactly what to do with pain. You cried when it hurt. You screamed when you were scared. You reached out when you needed comfort. There was no hesitation. No shame. No filter. Your emotional instincts were intact, untouched, and fully alive. 

That was grief. That was healing. That was emotional wisdom in its purest form. 

You didn’t ask if you were crying too much. You didn’t wonder if your sadness made someone else uncomfortable. You didn’t try to hide your tears. You didn’t apologize for your needs. You felt your way through. Your emotions flowed, and your body responded. 

That’s what grieving used to look like—before the world got to you. 

Even now, your body still holds that ancient intelligence. Your eyes blink on their own. Your lungs rise and fall with every breath, without being told how. Your nails grow. Your hair grows. Your skin renews. Your blood circulates. Your bones repair. Your body builds new cells every second. Your heart, even after trauma, even after breaking—can begin to mend itself. 

So why do we treat grief like it needs instructions?
Why do we act like we need to learn it from a worksheet or a model or a timeline?
Why do we believe it needs to be managed, tamed, or hidden? 

The truth is—you knew how to grieve when you got here. But you were taught to silence it. Somewhere along the way, someone told you not to cry. Not to be so sensitive. Not to talk about it. Not to burden others. You were told to keep it together. To be grateful. To focus on the positive. You were told to be strong. 

And worse? You were rewarded for it. 

You were praised when you smiled through your pain. You were applauded when you went back to work too soon. You were admired for not falling apart. The world called that strength. But what they were really celebrating was your performance—your ability to bury your pain deep enough that no one else had to see it. 

So you learned how to perform.
You learned how to hide.
You learned how to grieve in silence.
And now, when the ache creeps in, when the tears fall unexpectedly, when your body shakes without warning—you think you’re doing something wrong. 

But you’re not. 

There is nothing broken in your grief.
What’s broken is the trust you had in yourself before the world taught you to second-guess it. 

Grief is not too big for you.
Grief is not failure.
Grief is your body’s way of honoring what mattered. It’s your soul’s call for space. For truth. For release. It’s not a flaw in the system—it is the system. 

Grief is how your heart tells the story of love, loss, and longing.
It doesn’t need to be explained. It needs to be felt. 

You don’t need a five-step model.
You don’t need someone else to tell you what’s normal.
You don’t need a therapist to translate the language of your own heart. 

What you need is space.
You need stillness.
You need to be believed.
You need room to remember. 

You are not grieving wrong.
You are grieving in a world that taught you to doubt the one thing you came here knowing how to do. 

But your grief has always known the way.
It’s waiting for you to stop performing.
To stop managing.
To stop holding back. 

It’s waiting for you to come back to the truth.
The one you were born with.
The one you’ve carried all along. 

You knew how to grieve when you came here.
And you still do.