Grief Graffiti

Lately, I’ve been feeling this deep, persistent urge to escape. Not just the physical space I’m in, but the emotional weight of this life, this grief. The thought of leaving—of moving to another country, starting over somewhere far away—has been so seductive. It feels like maybe if I could just go somewhere else, I could breathe again. Maybe I could outrun the heaviness.

But the truth is, this longing to escape is making it hard to be here now. It’s stealing my ability to enjoy the present moment, to feel connected to the beauty of my home, the stillness, the safety I’ve created around me. The peace in knowing where my younger son is, that’s he’s alive & that he’s doing better. I know I have so much to be grateful for. I can see it logically—the comfort, the space, the love. But emotionally, I feel like I’m floating just above it all, unable to land.

I think I’m being asked to stay. To be still. To stop trying to fix or change or run. Instead, to learn how to sit with this grief, this ache, without needing to escape it. That’s so much harder than packing a bag and disappearing.

But maybe the real journey isn’t outward. Maybe it’s inward—into presence, into acceptance, into allowing myself to fully feel, even when it hurts. I’m trying. I really am.

As I was writing this I came across this post from a fellow griever that said it so well:

We were out on the water recently, and for a brief moment, I felt it.

a tiny crack of happiness.

It didn’t last long.

The weight of our reality came crashing back in, quickly and as sharp as ever.

The sun was setting, and all I could think was,

“Man… this is beautiful.”

But the truth is, it’s easier to hate life right now.

It’s easier to see the struggle, the pain, the never ending grind.

The bills.

The broken systems.

The politics.

The broken homes.

The noise of a world that seems to be losing its soul.

A world at war. A world asleep to what matters.

And in a strange, aching way, that gives me peace

knowing he is in a better place.

He’s free from all of this.

Free from having to fight so hard just to feel okay,

which is what most people are doing today.

The world feels lost. Heavy.

And it often feels like a never ending cycle of struggle.

But then there are these moments.

Moments that sting because they’re so beautiful… and he’s not here to see them.

When the sky turns a color too deep for words.

When the flowers hum in silence.

When beauty slices through the fog of grief.

When the laughter of [my other children] echoes through our home.

In those moments, I find myself whispering,

“Just look at that sun, [son].”

Imagining him right beside me, [his brother & sister there too], watching it all unfold.

So lately, I’ve started to understand something else.

What I’m really learning in this life, through so many painful, profound lessons, is that it’s not about chasing happiness.

It’s not about constantly indulging, or always seeking joy.

It’s not about trying to fill the void with more stuff, more experiences, more distractions, or more external things.

And it’s also not just about sitting in the pain and struggle either.

It’s about recognizing both, but not clinging to either.

What I’m being taught, mostly from the other side, is to embrace stillness.

To sit in the moment.

To feel it. Even the pain. Even the joy.

To not run from it.

To not numb it or shove it down.

To sit in the sunshine or rain and let it hit you, not fearing its end, but simply experiencing it.

We’re not here to escape.

We’re here to experience.

And I’m learning that experience includes both:

The ache and the awe.

The sorrow and the softness.

The grief and the beauty.

We can’t chase joy or pain.

We can only seek peace from within.

That’s where I always find [my son].

In the stillness.

In the sunset.

In the breath I take when I stop trying to escape this life…

and start living inside it.

He’s always right there. 

And beyond feeling my son beside me,

I think that’s really the point.

Maybe this life isn’t about some giant purpose or life changing mission for everyone.

Maybe we’re just here to experience it.

To walk it through…

(and lend a helping hand to someone in need when we can)

then eventually, we go home.

Another day closer, son. Another day closer 

~Amanda Marie Cabra