When sorrow walks into a room, it doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it slips in quietly, takes a seat in the corner, and waits, unnoticed. But we often rush grief like a courier, eager for it to be delivered and gone. Grief is not a parcel to be tracked. It is a presence that demands space.
Imagine a child trying to speak while the world shouts. Every comforting word becomes noise drowning their truth. That is what happens when we rush someone’s mourning. We plaster “it’s time to move on” across wounds that have not even scabbed.
True compassion asks only one thing—permission to exist alongside pain. It is the silence offered when words fail. The soft presence that says, “I am here, even when your tears have no rhythm.”
Grief does not follow a blueprint. It takes its own time. Some days it arrives like an avalanche. Other days, it tiptoes in on a memory. To demand it leave on our schedule is cruelty disguised as comfort.
So let us unlearn impatience. Instead of advice, we offer presence. Instead of timelines, we offer tenderness. Instead of silencing tears, we hand them tissues and permission.
Because healing cannot thrive in a rush. It flourishes in the gentle nutrients of being seen, being heard, and most importantly, being allowed.
So next time grief sits at your table, welcome it. Not as a guest to be bid farewell, but as a messenger deserving of time. Let them commune. Let them speak. Let them sit in silence. In that sacred stillness, healing happens slowly and beautifully.
#crom_de_pen_goddess
