Grief is rarely a straight line. We’re often told it comes in stages, like a checklist we can eventually complete. But for those of us who have felt it “to the core,” we know the truth is much messier. Grief is less like a map and more like glitter.
In the beginning, it’s everywhere. It’s on your hands, in your hair, and scattered across every corner of your life. You try to clean it up, to restore some sense of order, and for a while, you think you’ve succeeded. Then, you move a sofa or open a forgotten drawer, and there it is—a tiny sparkle catching the light, reminding you of what is gone.
In my own life, five specific “shards” of this glitter have shaped the person I am today.
The Ending of “Us”
On August 22, 2010, a seven-year relationship ended with a single, devastating text: “Ayoko na, you deserve someone better.” Seven years of shared dreams collapsed into six words. It was my first true encounter with the kind of grief that feels like physical weight. It taught me that rejection is a form of mourning—you aren’t just losing a person; you’re losing the future you had already scripted in your head.
The Unspoken Wisdom
Then came the death of my father. Ours was a relationship defined by distance and shyness during my formative years. But as I grew older, the silence between us transformed into a comfortable space for wisdom. He was a man of few words, but those words carried weight. Now that he’s gone, I find that glitter in the quiet moments, missing the casual conversations that I only learned to value when time was running out.
The Loss of Sight and Self
Perhaps the most harrowing was being diagnosed with a progressive eye condition. This wasn’t just a medical diagnosis; it was a spiritual and financial devastation. It made me feel useless, a passenger in my own life. Even now, the breakdown happens when I remember that total blindness is a “when,” not an “if.” This grief is unique—it is the mourning of a version of myself that is slowly fading away.

The Silent Morning
Then there was Adage, my dog. People who say “it’s just a dog” have never had a soul-connection with a hiking buddy. Her loss pierced through my soul. My mornings are different now; the trail feels emptier. She was pure love, and her absence is a shadow that follows me on every walk.
The Indifference of Blood
Finally, there is the grief of the living: my sister’s unjust indifference. After helping her through her rock bottom while I was at my own lowest point, her subsequent silence and manipulation felt like a second abandonment. Mourning a sibling who is still alive is a heavy, confusing burden. It is the death of a hope that things would finally be “better.”
The Quiet Truth
Through all this, I’ve realized that grief doesn’t go away. It settles. It becomes quieter, less overwhelming. You learn to carry it gently.
Years later, you find a bit of that glitter tucked behind a shelf. You might smile, or even laugh, because it reminds you of connection—of someone or something that mattered deeply. Eventually, a photo or a familiar scent won’t bring a sharp sting, but a soft warmth.
Grief becomes a part of your story—a soft echo of a love that never really left.