“Some days I am more wolf than woman, and I am still learning how to stop apologizing for my wild.” –Nikita Gill
My Interpretation: I did not lose my softness by accident. The world carved it out of me bit by bit, bruise by bruise until I had no choice but to bury the part of me that once smiled without checking the room first. This one is not about someone else’s death. It is about the first time something in you died. Not metaphorically. Not vaguely. But viscerally. The moment your joy got buried, & no one noticed there should have been a eulogy.
Series 4 – Post 4: The Grief Spiral
My First Funeral Was Not My Mother’s: It Was My Smile
Everyone remembers the first funeral they attended.
→ The casket.
→The hymns.
→The black clothes.
But mine came way earlier.
There was no casket.
No program.
No pastor.
Just a shift.
A snap.
A silence so internal no one else heard it –
but I did.
I do not remember the date.
Just the feeling.
Like something inside me stood up…
& walked out.
& what stayed behind?
The girl who could smile on command.
Who nodded.
Laughed.
Made others comfortable-
even while she was
bleeding out,
& dying inside.
Because that is what girls are taught.
Swallow the sharp.
Hide the ache.
Smile with your teeth, not your eyes.
They say it happens gradually.
That people do not just stop smiling.
But I did.
& it was not grief that took it.
It was disappointment.
It was betrayal.
It was realizing that softness made me a target.
That vulnerability was currency I could never afford.
So, I hardened.
Not aloud-
strategically.
Quietly.
For survival.
& here is the worst part?
People liked me more that way.
→ Easier.
→ Controlled.
→ Predictable.
They praised the girl who could function while bleeding.
They adored the one who soothed them–
even as she unraveled.
They called it strength.
Never realizing it was burial.
I do not think I have ever fully resurrected that smile.
Not the real one.
Not the one from before.
The one that came easy-
that lit up rooms without first scanning them for danger.
Now, I smile in pieces.
Cautiously.
Rarely.
Like it costs me something every time.
Because it does.
That was my first funeral.
& I did not get flowers.
Or a speech.
Or time off work.
Just a quiet, internal burial
of the girl who once believed people were kind by default.
But here is the truth:
She is not gone.
She is waiting.
For safety.
For softness.
For a world that does not require her death
& until that world arrives?
I will honor her.
By telling the truth.
By refusing to fake it.
By naming what I have lost-
& refusing to pretend it did not matter.
Xoxo ♡
Whisper to the ghosts. Yell into the void. Just don’t be an asshole.