Not all grief wears black. Some of it hides in old photos, in dreams we no longer chase.
I once found a box tucked away in the back of an old cupboard while cleaning. Inside were remnants of a chapter I’d almost forgotten—handwritten notes from a course I never completed, a fading photograph of a friend I no longer speak to, and a sketch of a business idea that once lit me up. I sat on the floor, surrounded by these quiet artifacts, and felt a sudden heaviness I couldn’t quite name.
It wasn’t sadness in the loud, cinematic way we imagine grief to be. It was subtler—like a background hum I’d grown used to. A quiet ache for the paths I didn’t take, the friendships that dissolved without conflict, the past selves I had to let go of to grow into the person I am today.
We often reserve the word “grief” for monumental loss—death, divorce, or dramatic endings. But there’s another kind of grief, softer and less spoken: the grief of natural drift. Of the slow dissolving of what once mattered deeply.
This kind of grief doesn’t ask for condolences. It often passes unnoticed, unacknowledged even by the one carrying it. Yet it shapes us. It lingers in the questions we no longer ask, the places we no longer visit, the silence in old WhatsApp threads.
And here’s the difficult truth: we rarely give ourselves permission to mourn these invisible losses.
We live in a world obsessed with motion—forward, upward, always toward something new. There’s little space to pause and honour what we’ve left behind, especially when what we left behind was once beautiful. Or once felt like it should have lasted forever.
But grief, even the quiet kind, needs acknowledgment. Not to dwell, but to integrate. To lay flowers at the gravesite of who we once were, and all we once hoped for.
So, if you find yourself feeling “off” without a clear reason—if a part of you feels unmoored, nostalgic, or strangely tender—don’t rush to label it as weakness or moodiness.
It might just be grief, moving through you.
Not a breakdown. Just a quiet remembering.
Not a cry for help. Just your soul making space.
Give yourself a moment. Breathe into it. Write about it. Name it, gently.
And then, when you’re ready, keep walking.
With a little more softness. And a lot more grace.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
Whisper back, if the letter spoke to you.