When the Sky Comes Down

There are days when grief doesn’t arrive as a wave or a memory or even a thought. It comes as weight.  Weight so heavy your thinking is clouded. 

This is not a storm. It’s a hovering. A lingering. The kind of day where nothing terrible happens, yet everything feels altered and blurry.  

This painting came from one of those days—the kind where everything is technically fine, but it still feels like the sky is pressing a little too close. Not crushing. Just close enough that you notice it with every breath.  I’ve learned that when that happens, it’s usually not about one thing. It’s the accumulation. The things I didn’t say. The moments I powered through. The feelings I tucked away because they didn’t seem urgent at the time. And then suddenly, there they are—hovering.

I used to think I needed to fix those days. Push past them. Stay productive.  Be busy.  Now I’m learning that sometimes the kindest thing I can do for myself is simply notice them and let them exist without explanation.  

If you’re having a day like that, you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just human.  And you’re not alone in it.