Today I hold a pause in my hands. Smoke curls upward, slow and deliberate, carrying what I can’t say out loud. It drifts the way grief does; shapeless, lingering, impossible to control. Watching it move reminds me to breathe, to release, to stop holding everything so tightly.

I’ve always been the type to keep busy. When life unravels, I throw myself into school assignments, shifts at work, the comfort of schedules that keep my hands full and my mind distracted. But this time feels different. My mom’s passing broke through every structure I thought could carry me. I’m left standing inside a silence I can’t outrun, facing feelings that don’t fit neatly into routine.

What’s strange is that I once wished for a week away, a break from responsibilities, some breathing room. Now I have it, and it feels nothing like rest. It’s a week of despair stretched thin across the days, a rupture in the rhythm of my life. I’m sitting in a quiet I can’t ignore, facing emotions that don’t fit into the comfort of my routine.

So I stay. I stay with my brother in the quiet, because showing up for him matters more than keeping myself distracted. His presence pulls me back to earth, reminding me love still needs tending. I answer calls I’d rather ignore. I sit in the heaviness of days that should have been ordinary. This stillness is painful, but it’s also a kind of work, the work of love, the work of carrying someone else through grief even as I’m learning to carry my own.

Grief has taught me that stopping is not weakness. It’s survival. It reshapes strength into something quieter: the ability to remain when leaving would be easier. The smoke reminds me of this too, how release can be grounding, how rising can be slow but certain.

Today is not about moving forward. It’s about surviving the pause, about staying present in what’s unbearable, and knowing even here, I am still here.