The art of grieving yourself
Pov: mouring myself
I think right now I’m feeling the shift of the season—where the leaves that carried me through the first half of the year are quietly ready to move on.
I’m grieving the parts of myself I thought would be alive by now, but as we both know, life always has its own plans.
I’m grieving the dreams I once believed were mapped out, only to realise they were too chaotic, too free, drifting beyond structure, postponed until their time to be born.
I’m grieving the versions of myself I no longer recognise. The ones that were never truly mine, though I refused to see it. The ones I longed to become, but didn’t. And all those little parts that tried so hard to be different, when in truth, we were always the perfect match.
I’m grieving the timelines I once thought I needed to meet. They say life isn’t a competition, but sometimes it’s hard not to believe it is. So right now, I’m choosing to grieve all the plans that never really belonged to me, at the ages I once imagined they would.
I’m grieving the states of mind that kept me playing small—believing only in what I wasn’t capable of, distracting me from everything I can.
And perhaps, most of all, I’m grieving the past seasons of myself. My spring, my summer. Allowing my leaves to be carried away with the cold winds of fall.
.-Pem
