The Deathwalk of Pretending Everything Is Fine

There is a particular kind of grief that comes

not from loss alone—

but from the performance that follows it.

The tight-smile, high-functioning,

still-showing-up-when-you’re-empty kind of survival.

We do it because we have to.

We do it because the world doesn’t stop for heartbreak.

We do it because the bills still come.

We do it because people still expect texts back and clean dishes and

a version of us that doesn’t make them uncomfortable.

But grief?

Grief does not give two actionable shits about anyone’s expectations.

It comes for you in waves,

in stillness,

in traffic.

It comes in so many forms.

It’s the death of someone you didn’t think you could live without.

It’s the divorce you didn’t want from the life you thought you were building.

It’s the unraveling of a future you had already imagined,

and now have to un-imagine with every breath.

It’s the soul of the country you live in—

rotting in plain sight,

while you try to keep showing up to work and not scream.

It’s the silence you sit in at night

when you wonder how much more you can pretend

that everything is fine.

This is the deathwalk.

It is the slow, aching march of keeping it together

when the truth is splintered across your bones.

And still—

 you answer emails.

 You go to the meeting.

 You make the lunch.

 You post the photo.

 You say, “I’m good.”

And maybe you even start to believe it.

But the grief doesn’t go.

It just waits,

soft and sharp,

patient and heavy,

and at some point,

you realize it’s not the pain that’s breaking you—

it’s the pretending.

The pretending is the betrayal.

The lie that says you can’t fall apart.

The lie that says rage and sorrow make you weak.

The lie that says silence is safer than truth.

But here’s what I know:

Telling the truth is holy.

Cracking open is sacred.

Grief is not the end.

It’s the threshold.



It is the moment when the old life burns

and something ancient inside you says—

Let it.

Let the mask fall.

Let the ache speak.

Let the rage take up space.

Let the ghost of who you were wail.

You will not vanish.

You will not be swallowed.

You will resurrect.

Not as who you were -

but as who you were always meant to be—

before the pretending made you forget.

This is the deathwalk - but it’s also the rite.

The reckoning.

The return.

And on the other side?

Not answers.

Not neatness.

Not resolution.

But life.

Untamed.

Unearned.

Unapologetic.

Yours.