There are days when grief feels almost physical, like the air has thickened and you have to work harder just to exist inside your own chest.
It can feel like breathing underwater — heavy, slow, unfamiliar.
Everyone else seems to move on while you’re learning how to inhale again without breaking.
I know that place.
There were mornings I woke up and it felt like my heart hadn’t caught up with the rest of me.
Like sorrow was waiting at the edge of the bed, steady and patient, ready to wrap itself around my body again.
I didn’t know how to pray beyond a whisper.
Sometimes my only prayer was “Jesus, help.”
Sometimes even that felt like too many words.
But here’s what I’ve learned:
God does not step back when we sink.
He steps closer.
He meets us in the heaviness we can’t explain.
He sits with us in the quiet ache we hide from everyone else.
He doesn’t demand that we breathe normally — He simply stays close until air finds its way back into our lungs.
Grief isn’t a storm you walk out of once.
It rises and falls in waves.
Some days bring clarity.
Others bring a weight you didn’t expect.
And none of it means you’re failing or going backward.
It means you’re human.
It means you loved deeply.
It means your heart is trying its best to survive, what it never asked for.
If today feels heavy, here is your permission:
You don’t have to be strong.
You don’t have to smile through it.
You don’t have to explain why you’re not “over it.”
You don’t have to rush your way into healing.
You don’t even need perfect faith — just honesty.
Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is breathe slowly and say,
“Lord, meet me here.”
And He does.
Not with noise, but with nearness.
Not with pressure, but with presence.
If grief feels like deep water today, maybe remember this:
You’re not drowning.
You’re being held, just float.
Held by the One who knows every tremor of your heart.
Held by the One who remembers your story.
Held by the One who weeps with you and whispers strength into your bones.
Healing doesn’t come all at once.
Sometimes it comes in tiny breaths that don’t look like progress.
Sometimes it comes in the moment you realize you made it through a day you didn’t think you could.
Sometimes it comes through the softest touch of grace — a Scripture, a song, a memory, a sunrise or a bird singing just for you.
Wherever you are today, may peace find you gently.
May breath return slowly.
May Jesus sit beside you in the depths until light rises again.
You’re not alone.
You’re not behind.
And you’re not too broken for beauty to grow again.
One breath at a time.
One day at a time.
Held by Love.
-Blessings Monique
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