The Weight of Time

Some days the path is clear, other days it disappears into mist. Grief teaches us to walk anyway.

Most days, time slips by unnoticed.

We glance up and realize weeks have passed,

seasons have changed,

children have grown.

We shake our heads and murmur, Time flies.

In joy, that saying feels like a loss—

birthdays, new loves, laughter, and adventure

always end too soon.

The days of happiness are never long enough.

We cling to them, wishing for just one more hour,

one more evening bathed in light.

But in grief, time does not fly.

It drags.

Each second becomes heavy,

each hour a mountain to climb.

The clock slows to a cruel crawl

as we sit in heartbreak,

as our realities crack apart.

We survive not in days, but in moments—

breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.

People tell us, time heals all wounds.

And yes, healing does live in time’s hands—

but no one speaks of the excruciating work

required to live through it.

The silence of empty rooms.The endless nights that stretch too long.

The ache of waiting for the sun to rise

so we can mark another day survived.

Time is both a thief and a healer.

It steals what is beautiful too quickly,

and lingers too long in what is brutal.

Yet somehow, slowly,

it does its work.

Moments stitch into hours,

hours into days,

days into a life remade.

And one morning we wake to find

that what once broke us

no longer owns us.

The weight has shifted,

the sharpest pain has dulled,

and though we carry the scars,

we also carry the proof—that even in the wreckage,

we endured.

And more than endured—we grew.

We became deeper, softer, stronger.

We learned to love again,

to laugh again,

to trust that even in sorrow,

life keeps pulsing through us.

Time does not erase what was lost,

but it shapes what remains.

And in that shaping,

we discover something holy—that living through the hardest hours

is its own form of triumph.

Even here,

we are alive.

And joy exists

amid the suffering.