I didn’t experience grief as something that happened to me all at once.
It arrived alongside responsibility. Decisions. Other people’s needs. The practical work that follows loss. There were things that had to be done, and I could do them. That part came first.
The emotional weight didn’t disappear, but it stayed in the background while I focused on what was necessary. I made calls. I talked to police. I helped other people move from one place to the next. I answered questions. I gave information. I did what needed to be done.
At the time, this didn’t feel unusual. It felt appropriate.
What I didn’t recognize then was how much energy this required. Not just the tasks themselves, but the constant monitoring underneath them. Keeping track of details. Making sure facts were clear. Preventing misunderstandings. Holding the shape of things steady while everything underneath had shifted.
My mind stayed active. It replayed the day before. The hours leading up to it. Small moments that suddenly felt larger. I wasn’t searching for blame. I was searching for coherence. I needed the sequence to make sense, even if the outcome didn’t.
I assumed this was how grief worked. That everyone replayed events like this. That everyone tried to stabilize meaning by thinking harder, by checking details, by keeping loved ones close.
I didn’t think of it as rumination. It felt more like vigilance.
As time went on, the work didn’t stop. People asked questions. People shared opinions. People filled in gaps in ways that didn’t feel accurate or fair. I found myself explaining things before they were asked. Not to justify, but to prevent distortion.
Precision mattered. Facts mattered. What could be said safely mattered.
I didn’t talk much about how I felt. Not because I didn’t feel anything, but because feeling wasn’t the part that felt most fragile. Meaning was.
Managing that meaning took quiet effort. It didn’t look like strain from the outside. Inside, it required constant attention. Monitoring what was said. What was left unsaid. How much space to allow. How much to close.
I didn’t experience this as masking at the time. I experienced it as containment. As keeping something vulnerable from being mishandled.
It wasn’t until later that I noticed the cost.
I became exhausted in ways that didn’t resolve with rest. My tolerance for being seen narrowed. Conversations became harder to track. I said things without filtering them the way I usually would. I lost precision when I was tired, and with it, control.
Privacy helped. Being alone reduced the demand. Without an audience, there was less to manage. Less to hold in place.
At the same time, being alone meant absence. Missing gatherings. Skipping moments I wanted to be part of. Relief and loss existed together, without resolving into a clean choice.
Looking back now, I don’t try to correct any of this. I don’t wish I had behaved differently or handled it better. I did what I could with the capacity I had.
What remains isn’t an answer. It’s an awareness of how much work was required just to stay upright.
