People say things after loss that are meant to help.
They say you are so strong.
They say time heals.
They say you’ll get through this.
Sometimes they add other things.
They say they’re praying for you.
They say God will carry you.
They tell you to keep the faith.
I know these words are usually offered with care.
I also know they are often not true.
Or at least, not true in the way they are meant.
I used to feel the urge to correct people.
To say that strength was never a choice.
To say that time does not heal anything, it just adds distance.
To say that getting through something does not mean it stops shaping you.
But I don’t correct people anymore.
Not because they don’t bother me.
And not because they suddenly fit.
I stopped correcting people because explaining grief takes energy.
It takes energy to decide how honest to be.
It takes energy to soften the truth so it doesn’t disappoint them.
It takes energy to manage their reaction once you’ve spoken.
There is also the quiet pressure to protect them.
You don’t want them to feel sorry for you.
You don’t want to make them uncomfortable.
You don’t want to take away the thing they’re using to reassure themselves.
And sometimes, they don’t actually want to understand why what they’re saying isn’t true.
They want the comfort of believing it is.
Strength, for example, is often misunderstood.
People talk about it as if it were a quality you can access when needed.
As if it were a decision.
But strength is not what I always feel.
And it was never something I chose.
What looks like strength is often just endurance.
Or habit.
Or the simple fact that life continues whether you are ready or not.
So now, I let people say what they need to say.
I say thank you.
I nod.
I let the moment pass.
Not because it doesn’t bother me.
But because correcting it would cost more than it would give.
This is not avoidance.
And it is not dishonesty.
It is a form of self-preservation.
I save my explanations for the people who are willing to hear them.
I save my words for places where they can land without being reshaped.
I save myself by not spending energy where it will not be received.
For those who worry about saying the wrong thing, “I’m sorry” is often enough.
It doesn’t try to comfort. It just stays with what is.
So I don’t correct people anymore.
It isn’t resignation.
It’s a quieter boundary.
And for now, that’s enough.
