Stability didn’t arrive the way I expected it to.
It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t the absence of grief.
It was the moment I realized I could breathe again.
That my chest didn’t feel quite as heavy.
That the tightness loosened enough for air to move in and out without effort.
That was the first sign.
Stability, for me, has never meant forgetting what I lost. The loss remains part of how I move through the world now, and part of who I am, even when it isn’t visible to anyone else.
What changed wasn’t the presence of grief.
It was my relationship to it.
One of the clearest moments I recognized stability came unexpectedly. I was driving when a favorite song came on the radio, one I genuinely loved, and I found myself singing along. Not forcing it. Not thinking about it. Just singing.
For a few seconds, my body responded before my mind caught up.
It was surprising.
And it was a relief.
At first, stability was intermittent and fragile. I knew the intense pain would surface again. I could feel it waiting, unpredictable and sharp. The moments of steadiness were brief, and I didn’t trust them yet. I assumed they would disappear as quickly as they arrived.
Sometimes they did.
But over time, those moments became more frequent. Less fragile. Less temporary. The pain still returned, but it no longer overtook everything in its path. The swings softened. The intensity loosened its grip.
Stability didn’t mean I was okay.
It meant that I had regained control over my executive functioning, and over my emotions.
Memories and thoughts could still hit me. The world still shifted. The weather still changed. Waves still came. But I could trust myself to handle it.
I didn’t need to reach for anything outside myself to stay upright. I wasn’t stabilized by circumstances or reassurance. I was stabilized by knowing I could respond, adjust, and recover, even when things hurt.
I could choose to feel happiness for a minute without guilt.
I could choose to feel sadness without fear that it would spiral endlessly.
I could move between emotions and trust that none of them would destroy me.
That’s what stability looks like now.
Not numbness.
Not constant calm.
But the ability to stay present with what I’m feeling without being overtaken by it.
The ground feels more stable beneath me.
I don’t stand on it all the time.
But I know where it is.
And knowing it’s within reach gives me hope.
Stability doesn’t erase grief.
It doesn’t mean the loss is behind me.
It means I can carry it without losing myself in the process.
That is what stability means now.
