For some of us, our feelings became liabilities, and needs were turned into ammunition. Children in these families learn that vulnerability is a weapon — not theirs, but their parents’. When they show emotion, it’s used against them. When they cry for help, it becomes a map of where to strike next time. So they hide. They go quiet. They bury emotions deep underground, because every time they surface, they get attacked.

I believe we can grieve someone twice — or more. But each layer reveals a new truth. Grieving doesn’t mean we were wrong to walk away. It means we were brave enough to see clearly, even when the truth hurt like hell. And if relief comes when they’re gone, that doesn’t make you cold-hearted. It means your body finally believes it’s safe.

Mortality has a way of cutting through the noise. It puts everything into perspective. It strips life down to the simplest things. When we really sit with it, most of us want just a few things: love, connection, and at the end of life, some kind of closure. So when we hear words like illness, terminal, or time is short, our hearts often leap ahead of our heads. Maybe now they’ll soften. Maybe now they’ll see me. Maybe now we’ll finally meet on equal ground.