The Calls Eventually Stop

After losing my brother in the worst way possible, my grandmother, and my best friends all within two years of each other, I can tell you something nobody really prepares you for:

The “hey, just checking on you” calls fade.

Not because people are bad.
Not because they don’t care.
Their lives continued.

Mine fell apart.

And I still had to continue.

Somewhere along the way, people get this quiet little mindset of, “Well, it’s been a year.”

Like grief has a deadline.

Like twelve months hits and suddenly your chest stops caving in.

That mindset is…

complete and utter bullshit.

It is the grief cycle, not the grief line.

It repeats. It loops. It sneaks up. You might skip some parts. You might get every single stage in one day. You might think you’re finally doing okay, then one song, one smell, one picture, one stupid random memory drops a ton of bricks right on your balls.

And suddenly you’re back at square one.

Only this time, the calls aren’t coming.

A few people close to you might know shit is hitting the fan. But to everyone else?

“I’m okay.”

Because who really wants to hear the truth?

Who wants to hear, “The past two years have been hell, and honestly, I am not okay”?

Even standing in the funeral home, we lie to each other.

We hug.
We catch up.
We say the usual things.
We move on.

And maybe in that moment, we actually are okay.

Maybe for a few minutes, there are enough people around, enough noise, enough distraction, that your own thoughts disappear into it.

But it’s temporary.

Then it’s over.

Everyone goes their separate ways. There are hugs, handshakes, and the obligatory, “Let’s catch up soon.”

But most of the time, you don’t.

One life stopped.

The rest of us are expected to keep going.

Then slowly, the calls quit. The texts stop coming. The check-ins fade.

And I can’t even blame them. I’m terrible at checking on people too.

But the part nobody sees is this:

Who I was and who I am now feel like two completely different people.

Before, I went out with friends. Worked on cars. Talked shit. Laughed. Showed up. I was fun to be around.

Now, I barely leave my house.

Not because I don’t want to.

I do.

It just takes so much damn energy to go out, interact, carry conversations, act normal, and pretend I’m not carrying all of this around.

Some days I wake up already tired.

And I know that probably sounds small to someone who hasn’t lived it.

But some days, it takes every ounce of me just to get out of bed.

Not work.
Not shower.
Not eat.
Just get out of fucking bed.

Then there are other days, rare days, where I wake up before the alarm and feel ready to go.

That’s grief too.

That’s the part people don’t see.

It doesn’t move in a straight line. It doesn’t care how much time has passed. It doesn’t ask permission before showing back up.

We all go through it differently.

At different times.

In different ways.

But we all go through it.

So check on your people.

Not just the week it happens.
Not just the month after.
Not just on the anniversary.

Check on them when everyone else has gone quiet.

That’s usually when they need it most.

Stay Here. Keep Going.