How Do You Start Over After Losing Your Best Friends?
Well. It’s weird. Like really weird. Two funerals in two months. And not just any people either, the kind of friends who felt like ribs in your body. Like part of your internal scaffolding. Suddenly, they’re gone, and it’s just… a lot quieter around here. Too quiet.
The past months were palliative care times two. Full immersion. I now have a whole new level of respect for nurses (saints, really. I am not built for it). Physically, it wrings you out like a dishcloth. Mentally, it’s like you’re standing in a field while a tornado gallops through your brain wearing stilettos. Every palliative process hits differently. Because every person’s goodbye is its own little novel. And honestly? I won’t drag you through the whole story, unless you’re dying for drama, in which case, sorry to disappoint.
I mostly just wanted to explain why I’ve been MIA. I wasn’t hiding. I was holding space for two people who trusted me with their final chapter. And let’s be honest: it’s not like there was a queue of volunteers lining up to step in.
Life is basically a fragile little eggshell. One small crack and suddenly everything shifts. So maybe we should stop fussing about nonsense and just… focus on what truly matters. After everything, I sat at home in complete silence for weeks. Not to mope. I don’t do extended sadness marathons. I talk to people when they’re alive. Sitting around brooding afterwards just feels a bit like emotional flagellation and I, respectfully, decline.
Some of her friends didn’t get it. But I’ve never been one to force grief into a box with a bow on top. I need peace. And no, it’s not depression. I’m not stuck in a grief puddle. I’m just navigating the pain, poking at it like “Hey, you still here?” and seeing if it’s worth lingering over.
Do I miss her? Of course. Her daily phone calls, filled with the same drama on repeat. I loved her, but my internal drama tank was permanently full. Apparently, I radiate the energy of a monk on Valium, calm to the point of suspicion. And that stillness has always been my life raft. Especially when everything else goes bananas.
But don’t be fooled. Behind the calm, there’s a cyclone. Grief feels like standing in the eye of it. And in those moments? I clean. Obsessively. Because if my surroundings are a mess, my brain thinks it’s starring in a daytime soap and honestly, it doesn’t need the role.
Those socks on the display cabinet? Crime scene. I can’t handle it. I stare at them like a cow watching a plane fly overhead. Confused and personally offended.
Anyway. The garden looks semi-human again. The ground floor has stopped yelling at me. We decluttered 25 years of kid chaos, mystery items, and emotional squatter energy. It’s time for us. Or actually… me. The me who loves to laugh so loud it annoys the cat. Who loves dancing barefoot in the kitchen, walking with music in her ears, and painting until the sun forgets what time it is.
Today’s my first post back on Hive, and I’ve missed you lot from the bottom of my heart. This is a real community. One I’ve grown to love more than I thought possible. So here I am again, slowly crawling back into my routine, waves and posts included. And thank you, truly, for the sweet messages and kind check-ins. They meant more than you know.
Warm regards from a tired friend who’s back. The rest will follow with lots of love
