Grief Isn’t Just Death—It’s the Life You Thought You’d Have

Let me tell you something straight up: grief is a bitch. And not just the kind that hits when someone you love dies. It’s also the kind that sneaks in when you realize the life you thought you’d be living by now? Yeah, that one’s nowhere in sight.

I lost my father,my person. The number one man in my life. My rock. My stability. The one who never made me feel like I was too much, or not enough. The one who believed in me even when I didn’t. Even when I made mistakes, he showed up with grace and love instead of judgment. Do you know how rare that is?

I’ll never forget walking into the hospital after months of not seeing him and barely recognizing him. He was thin. Fragile. His locs were gone. This strong, unshakable man I once thought could conquer anything… he broke down in tears when he saw me. And I broke down, too. I walked out into the hallway and sobbed my soul out. Because I realized I had to be the strong one now, For him.

But grief didn’t stop there. The year after my dad passed, I lost a cousin who was more like an aunt. The year after that, a close family friend who was like a little brother. It’s been back-to-back hits. No time to catch my breath. No chance to fully process one loss before another came knocking.

But here’s the thing people don’t always understand,I wasn’t just grieving them.
I was grieving the version of me they knew.
I was grieving the life I thought I’d have.
Being in my 30s, childless, partner-less, and still trying to figure my shit out wasn’t the plan.
 I grieved relationships that fell apart. I grieved the love I gave to people who didn’t even try to reciprocate. I grieved giving so much space in my life to people who wouldn’t have even saved me a damn seat at their table.
I grieved allowing others to define my worth based on my size, my softness, my insecurities.
I grieved the woman I see in my head—the one I’m still trying to become. The one who’s glowing, loved, unbothered, and fully standing in her power.

And then… there was the magazine.

I had a dream of creating a fashion magazine,something bold, beautiful, empowering, dripping in sensuality and self-love. A space where average-size and plus-size women could see themselves in high fashion, in luxury, in softness. I had big ideas, wild dreams. At first, some people hyped me up. I felt hopeful.

But the more I created, the more disillusioned I became. What was produced wasn’t what I envisioned. People started trying to mold my vision into their idea of what it should be. Suddenly, this thing that was supposed to be my heart project became something I didn’t recognize.

I was even told I was “promoting unhealthy women.”
Unhealthy? Nah. What I was promoting was self-love. Wholeness. Visibility.
But hearing that? It cut deep. It made me feel more alone than ever.

I tried to pivot,made little funny videos, tried to lean into my creativity in other ways. But I was discouraged. Burnt out. Emotionally numb. And I didn’t even realize at the time that I was dealing with serious mental health issues.
I thought I just wasn’t “good enough” to pull it off.
I thought maybe people like me don’t get to create grand, powerful, transformative things.
And every time something didn’t turn out perfect? It chipped away at me.
No matter how much I tried to push away my love for fashion, for storytelling, for empowerment it would always come

creeping back. Because all those things weren’t just hobbies. They were the parts of me I hadn’t healed yet.

Still, despite all the loss, I never stopped clapping for other people. That’s just who I am.
I’m still learning how to be okay with not being okay.
Still figuring out what it means to cut off people(even family)who bring more harm than healing.
Still sitting with the grief of not being where I thought I’d be… and the deep, aching desire to become who I know I can be.

But here’s what I know now:

I am soft. I am chaotic. I am sexual. I am funny.
I’m a little dramatic. I like watching Korean dramas and re-watching old comfort shows.
I get overwhelmed. I cry randomly. I laugh loudly. I crave love that feels like being seen.
I still feel like a little girl sometimes but that doesn’t mean I’m not a powerful ass woman.

Grief changed me. But it didn’t destroy me.
I'm far from fully healed. But I’m a hell of a lot better than I was.
And I’ve made peace with not needing to be perfect to be worthy.

So if you’re reading this and grieving something,someone, some version of yourself, some dream that didn’t work out—please know:
You are not broken. You are becoming.

This blog is not for the perfect. It’s not just for women, or for people with perfect bodies or aesthetic lives. It’s for anyone who’s in the middle of the mess and still choosing to grow.

Grief shows up in many forms.
It isn’t just about death.
It’s about change. Dreams. Love. Loss. Shit we thought would work out but didn’t.

But grief, if you let it, can also be the fire that forges your next chapter.

So feel it. All of it.
Let the anger come. Let the tears fall. Let the silence stretch.
Then pick yourself up, messy and magnificent, and keep becoming the badass, sensitive, weird, powerful light that you are.

You don’t have to be there yet.
You just have to keep showing up for yourself.
And baby, that’s enough.