It’s strange, the way grief steals even the simplest things — like breathing.
For a while, every inhale felt heavy, every exhale hollow. I wasn’t living; I was surviving, caught between the memories I couldn’t let go of and the future I wasn’t ready to face.

There were mornings when I woke up and forgot, for half a second, that you were gone.
And then it hit me — again, like the first time, over and over.
That’s what heartbreak does. It doesn’t just happen once. It keeps finding you in waves, again and again, until you learn how to float.

Learning to breathe again was not about forgetting you.
It was about finding space for life between the memories. It was about learning that pain and peace can exist in the same body, that you can miss someone and still choose to keep going.

I started with small things.
Opening a window.
Feeling the wind on my skin.
Listening to the sound of rain without letting it drown me.
Little by little, the world started to move again — and so did I.

I realized that grief never truly leaves. It softens. It becomes part of the rhythm of who you are. You breathe around it. You carry it, but it doesn’t carry you anymore.

And one day, without even noticing, I laughed again.
Not a forced laugh, not the kind you wear like armor, but the kind that rises naturally — fragile, honest, real.
In that moment, I knew: I was breathing again.

Grief changes you, but it also teaches you how strong the human heart is.
Because even when it’s shattered, it still beats.
Even when it aches, it still hopes.
And even after all that was lost, it still finds a way to love life again.

So, I breathe. Slowly, deeply, freely.
Not because the pain is gone — but because I am still here.
And that is enough.

Always and Forever

💬 Have you learned to breathe again after loss? Share your story in the comments — your strength may help someone else find their air again.