I never used to believe in grieving a life I couldn’t live.

I used to be judgmental about the very things I’ve now lived through — the decisions I consciously made, the paths I chose for myself. I was rigid in my thinking. Certain. Quick to form opinions.

Until I experienced everything I once judged.
Until I saw the other side.
Until I became aware.

There is always more than what meets the eye.
There is always more to the story than what people let you see — and more than we allow ourselves to understand.

I walk this earth differently now. More open. Softer. With more grace for the people around me — and for myself.

The past four years have brought changes, experiences, adventures I never could have predicted. And still, sometimes I catch myself yearning for a specific version of me — the one I was with a certain person, in a certain place, in a certain chapter of my life.

And I wonder.

What would have happened if I had stayed?
If I had fought harder — for the relationship, the visa, my worth?

Am I grieving a life I wanted but never got to live?
Or am I grieving an ideal I convinced myself I wanted?
Is this grief at all?
Am I even allowed to grieve something that never fully became real?

Maybe I wasn’t grieving the relationship.
Maybe I was grieving the idea that I couldn’t make it work.
Maybe my ego wanted proof that I was chosen.
That I was enough.

Grief is a strange thing.

As Jamie Anderson wrote, “Grief is love with nowhere to go.” There was a person who held all of my love — and then suddenly, there wasn’t. Keeping that love to myself feels almost selfish. I need an outlet. I need somewhere for all this love to land.

(Is there a chance that when we can’t offer our love to a safe place or person, we slowly begin to forget how to love at all?)

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross reminds us that grief isn’t something we simply get over — it’s something we learn to live with. As much as I’ve tried to “get over” things, I’m beginning to accept that they will simply be different. Not necessarily better. Not necessarily worse. Just different.

Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. It just means learning to live in a different reality.

And I think the most important part about grief is allowing it space.

It’s okay to grieve — anything.
What isn’t okay is pretending we don’t feel it.
Because suppressed grief doesn’t disappear. It waits. It resurfaces. And often not at a time of our choosing.

So I would rather sit with it.
Feel it consciously.
Make room for it.
Instead of being overtaken by it when I least expect it.

And yet, when it comes, I notice a tightness in my throat. A scream stuck somewhere between inhaling and exhaling. A cry for help I’m too proud to let out.

It isn’t dramatic.
It doesn’t knock me over.
It’s a quiet ache — like background music I didn’t choose but that somehow keeps playing.

Maybe grieving the life I didn’t live is proof that I dared to want something deeply.
Maybe it’s proof that I loved honestly.
Maybe it’s proof that I tried.

Or did I?

If I had truly tried, would I still be grieving a life I’m not living right now?

Maybe the real question isn’t whether I tried hard enough.
Maybe the real question is what I’m choosing next — and why.

Until we meet again, welcome your grief in.