“I’m Not Disappearing—Just Taking a Moment”

The Love Behind the Check-Ins

I know some of you suggested that I shouldn’t be alone right now. I’ve heard your concerns, felt your care in the texts, the phone calls. You've offered to visit, to stay the night, to take me out of the house for a while. I know you want to help take away the pain. I appreciate all of it—truly. Your kindness, your check-ins, your love… it means everything.

Why I’m Choosing Solitude

People grieve in all kinds of ways. Some need distraction. Some need company. I need solitude. I need this time alone. Not out of despair, not because I grang jai (เกรงใจ), but out of necessity.

Sal and I were a team. We had a rhythm. A shorthand. A way of moving through the world together. And now that he’s gone, I need time to sort out my feelings, to figure out my next steps, to grieve and ugly cry the kind of tears that come from deep inside—the kind that don’t need to be explained or comforted.

Right now, I need space to grieve on my own terms without being watched, consoled, or reassured. Because honestly, even the kindest words of comfort can feel like a disruption when you’re in the middle of feeling something so raw and so cutting.

Not About Strength—Just Truth

I’m not trying to be strong for the sake of it. I know I’ll be okay in the long run—not because someone tells me so, but because I know myself.

I just need space to walk through the rooms of this house—our home. It still holds so much of him. His clothes in the closet. His toothbrush by the sink. His tools in the garage. The groceries we never got around to cooking. His scent still lingers in some rooms.

These things are painful, yes, but they’re also deeply comforting. They’re pieces of the life we shared, and I’m not ready to pack them away just yet. I want to be near them. I want to smell his robe. I want to sit in his favorite chair. I want to feel him close, even if it makes me cry.

The House We Made a Home

There’s something about being alone in this house that feels essential right now. This isn’t just a building—it’s our home. This house holds our routines, our laughter, our fights, our quiet nights. It’s where we made dinner, paid bills, danced in the kitchen, folded laundry, binge-watched shows, and made plans we thought we’d have time to fulfill.

Every inch of this place holds a memory. This house is a living scrapbook of our time together. It saw us grow into each other, build a rhythm, become a team.

The Pressure to “Be Okay”

It’s not easy to sit with someone who’s in emotional pain. So it’s no surprise that many people tried to lift my spirits—sometimes with jokes, other times by pointing out a “silver lining” in my situation.

I know they meant well. And yes, laughter and lightness can absolutely be part of healing. But at times, I felt a subtle pressure to seem like I was doing better than I actually was—mostly because I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable just by being real.

There’s this unspoken pressure in grief—to move quickly through the pain, to get back to being “yourself,” to make sure others know you’re coping.

But the truth is, I don’t want to perform my healing. I don’t want to smile for the sake of appearances. I don’t want to be reminded that “he wouldn’t want me to be sad” when sadness is exactly what I need to move through.

If I do laugh or smile, I want you to know it's real in that moment because the grief comes in waves and, sometimes, I really am okay.

Grief is not a problem to be solved—it’s an experience to be lived. And sometimes that means being alone with it.

My Quiet Rituals

I’ve started texting him when I’m alone—to tell him the little things I want to share about my day, the funny moments, and to let him know when I miss him. To tell him how much I still love him. I know these are messages he’ll never read, but it makes me feel connected to him anyway.

I don’t know if anyone would understand it if they were here. And that’s part of why I need this solitude—it gives me the freedom to grieve in ways that don’t make sense to anyone but me.

I Still Need You—Just a Little Differently

This doesn’t mean I don’t want people around at all. I still need you. I’ll still reach out. I’ll still say yes to meals, to walks, to check-ins. I still want to see your faces, hear your stories, feel your hugs.

But I’m just asking for a little more room right now—room to fall apart and rebuild in my own time, in my own way.

What You Can Do

So if you’re reading this and feeling unsure of what to do, here’s what I’ll say: Just trust me. Trust that I’m not isolating myself out of despair, but out of a deep need to be with my thoughts, my memories, and my pain without interruption.

Please don’t take it personally if I say no to a visit or a phone call. It’s not about pushing anyone away—it’s about making space for this part of the journey. I’m not disappearing. I’m taking a moment. And when I’m ready, I’ll come back to the world with open arms.

Thank You

Until then, I just ask for patience, for grace, and for trust.

If you’ve ever felt the need to grieve on your own terms, I see you. We all heal differently—and that’s okay.