Dear Bluma,
I'm finding myself at a stage of a lot of loss. Everyone keeps telling me “time heals,” but it doesn’t feel like time is doing anything but stretching out the ache. Mornings are the worst for my grief. The house feels too big, the silence too loud. I keep thinking one day I’ll wake up and the weight will have lifted, but instead it’s just… different. There's a numbness, but it's still heavy.
How do I live with this hole in my chest?
— Still Hurting
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Dear Still Hurting,
Oh, my love… I wish time worked like a gentle seamstress, stitching us back together while we sleep. But time doesn’t heal; it holds.
It holds the ache until you’re strong enough to meet it. It holds the love that has nowhere to land. It holds the version of you who can’t yet imagine a life where this pain isn’t the headline.
And in that holding, you, too, must learn to hold yourself. Self-compassion is the balm that keeps the wound clean. Place your hand on your heart and know this. You're doing enough.
Healing may feel like erasing, but it’s actually expanding. You grow around the ache until your heart has room for both grief and light.
Let time be a container, not a cure.
Stop asking the days to fix you. Let them hold you steady instead. Wake up, eat something small, open a window. These are stitches, too.
Name your loss out loud.
Grief hates silence. Say their name. Tell the truth of what you miss. And when your voice trembles, answer it with tenderness: “It’s okay, love. Cry if you need to.”
Create small rituals.
Light a candle. Make their favorite meal. Rituals honor your sorrow. Let it remind you that caring for yourself is an act of devotion, too.
Stop measuring progress.
Healing is a slow return to life. If you showered today, if you remembered to breathe, that counts. Self-compassion means refusing to compare this moment to who you were before the breaking.
Time is the quiet witness of the sacred ache. One day, you’ll find that the ache no longer drowns you. It sits beside you, softened, reminding you that love still lives here.
With tenderness and tea,
Bluma
