A Note on Grief

The things we don't share.

Welcome to the latest installment of myMusings — a space dedicated to skincare, beauty and everything in-between. Today’s dispatch is about grief and the all-consuming ache that can be particularly cruel this time of year. I don’t usually share these kinds of posts and I’m tempted to delete this in the next two minutes. But I also can’t write about what I want to write about until I get this out. So please feel free to ignore this one, it’s just for me.

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The New Year in the Room

a muted start

What a year this week has been.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the start of the year. I like to say that I’m allergic to the inevitable pressures, misplaced expectations that clash with reality and failure-to-launch goals that seemingly everyone insists on discussing during this time of year. Personally, I ease into the new year at a glacial pace that even the most reluctant to change will find tedious. I don’t make resolutions or mood boards. I refuse to dwell on the past or plan for the year ahead. I will not entertain fostering new habits or opening a new notebook. Frankly, for most of January, my version of productivity is binging season after season of The Real Housewives. I’d love your recommendations on which franchise to start next (I just finished SLC).

But this year has been far more complicated. If it weren’t for Andy and Anderson, I’m not even sure I would know about the new year at all.

fresh grief

I know I won’t say this well but let me try to explain. This year concluded by marking the end of two of my most cherished, anchoring, beloved, sacred, dearest relationships — leaving me completely unraveled and more heartbroken than I knew to be possible. But the people I’m grieving are still alive. I think grieving the living presents a unique set of complex, dangerous unknowns. There’s no closure to be had. Just devastating hope that cuts deep with unimaginable precision. I’ve found it to be impossible to shake the desperate yearning that comes with lingering hope — the false promise of “normal.” The truth is I’m desperate for more of people I can no longer claim. I can’t help but wonder if the lump in my throat will ever go away. The end was too sudden, too blindsiding, too soon and too cruel to wrap my head around because some endings cannot be explained away. Sometimes all we can do is walk away knowing that our best was never enough.

And then there’s the unbearable realization that we used up all of our perfect — our hellos and talk to you soons, our inside jokes, our traditions, our love — which continues to shock my entire being. It’s felt like all of the light in my entire universe wasn’t just dimmed but turned off completely — blanketing my life with the excruciating absence of their light. And eventually, those perfect memories will fade. How can someone who is still alive, who I still love, feel like a relic? I guess I’m only beginning to understand that the immeasurable weight of our grief is something we’ll carry with us every moment of every day. And all I can think is welcome to your new, blistering reality. Maybe you can relate. I hope you can’t.

Ever the good student, I’ve already learned new ways to torture myself as my catastrophic personal loss made ample room for harrowing illusions I can’t bring myself to let go of — what could have been, moments we’ve already missed, ones we’ll never get to share, absence that cannot be filled, parts of myself that cannot be put back together or made whole. Sometimes I let myself live in an illusion that everything is “normal” or that there’s still hope but that, too, only leads to further devastation. And frankly, it’s hard to imagine or believe in any version of “normal” when you all you can feel is agonizing despair and dread.

Reminders of the people I’ve lost are everywhere and have the power to utterly shatter me at any moment, as if to say: I told you that you ruin everything. I never loved you “more.” It would be better for everyone if you didn’t visit. And yet. And yet, I miss your hands. I miss your laugh. I miss your smell. I miss your humor. I miss how you made me feel. I miss who you were. I miss who I thought you were.

It seems that for many of us, our lives are inevitably defined by the before and the aftermath — but I’m not sure how to move forward when all I want to do is go back. But there’s nothing to go back to after something so painful. Every day, countless times a day, I go to pick up my phone only to realize there won’t be anyone on the other end. Or at least, no one who wants to hear from me.

Suddenly, I feel like I’ve joined an unlucky club of grievers. Well, sort of. No one really talks about their grief — only the highlights. I don’t blame them. But then when we do find ourselves suffocating on our own tears, we have no idea who’s grieving too or how to find them. Sure, there’s an article in The New York Times you could read but it’s harder to find anything from the people you already connect to. To real people. Obviously, grief doesn’t really align with my usual dispatches on skincare and beauty. And I think so many of us never talk about our own grief or other vulnerable topics out of fear of coming across in the wrong way or being “cringey” or losing subscribers or getting lost in the algorithm. But how else can we know how any of us are really doing? Please don’t misunderstand me, I know this isn’t revolutionary and I’m certainly not the first person to ever be sad. I’m not the writer of our time or philosopher of any generation. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I feel it too and I wish I was able to connect to other people’s stories, even if those stories don’t align with their content on skincare or beauty or fashion. The mere thought of being vulnerable can be terrifying but nothing is more scary or painful than loneliness. We don’t have to grieve the same things or even in the same ways but I’d rather know that there’s someone else out there who can relate than see yet another roundup of cashmere sweaters. But then again, cashmere sweaters are always a nice distraction.

And if you’re part of this club of grievers for whom the holidays and every day in-between are a bitter battle, I really hope you know you’re not alone. I hope you’ve found a community, even if it’s just in me. Any loss — no matter who or what — can feel utterly isolating. Finding new connections may just be the only way through. I’m incredibly thankful to the friends and loved ones who have shared their stories with me, who made me feel secure, who knew exactly what I needed to hear. I’m also extremely grateful for my psychiatrist and modern medicine. I guess what I’m trying to say is reach out to me, to someone, and share your story. Keeping it inside will only hurt you.

I don’t have any deep insights or moving thoughts to conclude with. I could tell you about the two products that are holding my skin together like tape and glue when all I can do is crawl into bed — routine be damned. I could tell you about the sweats that I’ve lived in for the last month or the blankets that have become my safety cocoons. But we’ll save that for another day. If you read this far, thank you. My emails, DMs and comments are open. I hope you’re well.

Until next time, follow along on Instagram and take a look at my favorite things from my vanity to my closet. Don’t forget to click the 🤍 button before you go! Thank you for having me in your inbox. Talk soon.

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