Grief Graffiti

A friend I grew up with is a gifted writer & I love her way with words. She recently posted a poem she wrote that resonated deeply. We want so much to be seen, to be acknowledged, to feel like our lives have meaning. We used to believe that God was watching us, now we believe our Smartwatch cares. We crave gold stars for being adults. A badge for not yelling. A point for eating greens. A line graph that makes our trying look like progress.

This tracking & counting of our “likes” & “views” is tiring. But we log it anyway. We measure like it matters.Like someone’s keeping score. Like if we track it hard enough, we’ll earn the right to feel this tired. And maybe—”maybe this is survival. Maybe it’s what we do when the meaning runs thin and there’s no time for slow miracles.”

I love how her poem slowly peels back its layers – unraveling each cliche to reveal a deeper humility: the quiet realization that maybe we’re not just tired. Maybe we’re grieving, as she says in the final line, “Because we remember, somewhere deep, what it felt like to live without needing proof.”

We track our habits
as if living weren’t enough.
We want a score—
something earned.
Something shown.

Steps.
Streaks.
Water ounces.
Words typed.
Thoughts rephrased.

Resting heart rate.
Screen time.
Mood.
Boundaries held.

We chase the shape
of having done
what we once
just did.

We praise the ring,
the badge,
the seven-day streak
for remembering to breathe.

We screenshot our progress.
We post the graph.
We get a like
for closing the loop
on drinking water.

We say,
“This keeps me accountable.”
We say,
“I just want to be my best self.”
We say,
“It works.”

We used to write letters.
Now we log journal time.
We used to walk for fresh air.
Now we hit steps and close rings.
We used to make dinner.
Now we prep macros
and sync the scale.

We used to call our friends.
Now we track emotional labor
with color-coded categories
and “time since last check-in.”

We even rate the rest:
deep sleep, REM, wake cycles—
as if exhaustion were
just a data gap
and not a soul-level ache
for those of us
who didn’t plow fields
or swing hammers
or carry crates—
just sat in chairs
soft enough to cradle
our blister-prone hands.

We crave gold stars
for being adults.
A badge for not yelling.
A point for eating greens.
A line graph
that makes our trying
look like progress.

But we log it anyway.
We measure like it matters.
Like someone’s keeping score.
Like if we track it hard enough,
we’ll earn the right to feel this tired.

Because no one’s watching.
Because we don’t trust ourselves.
Because we want credit
for how hard it is
to do the ordinary things
while pretending they’re not.

We’ve gamified growth.
Quantified wellness.
Weighed, timed, sorted
everything
except why we’re still so tired.

And maybe—
maybe this is survival.
Maybe it’s what we do
when the meaning runs thin
and there’s no time
for slow miracles.

Maybe counting is a prayer
for people who can’t stop moving.
A way to feel seen
without having to speak.
A mirror we’re allowed
to hold up to ourselves
without apology.

Maybe tracking isn’t vanity.
Maybe it’s grief.

But still.
Somewhere,
someone is cooking without posting it.
Walking without a watch.
Writing without counting words.
Loving without keeping score.
Breathing without measuring the breath.

And they will not be better for it.
They will not be worse.
They will just be
unmeasured, unranked,
and quite alive.

And maybe we envy them.
Or mourn them.
Or miss them—
some without ever having been them.
Maybe we’re not tired—
we’re grieving.

Because we remember,
somewhere deep,
what it felt like to live
without needing proof.

~Kat Levi