(Note) *Place-anchored grief is when grief is tied to a place. Deferred grief is exactly what it sounds like. I wanted to give these contexts before continuing.
A Healing Holiday
The holidays have come and gone. I just arrived back at the apartment after two and a half weeks away. Two of those weeks were spent in Florida. It wasn’t the trip I expected, but it was healing in its own way. What I didn’t expect was how I felt while I was gone versus how I feel now that I’m back. I expected to move through the trauma and grief feelings of the past few months, and I thought I had.
What’s strange is that while I was gone, I barely cried over Greg or Eric. Once, maybe — when I was really drunk and alone, and the weight hit too hard. But otherwise, the grief stayed quiet. The trauma had minimal impact. I could talk to strangers about both of them and feel it without drowning in it. I didn’t expect that.
A New Kind of Grief: Place-Anchored
Now that I’m back, it feels like I’ve been dropped straight back into October when the trauma first happened. I’m learning this is called Place-Anchored and Defered Grief, and it’s hitting me different.
It’s the new year, almost the middle of January. Suddenly, I’m immersed in memories of Greg, our time together, and losing him in such a tragic way. Not in a reflective way. In a physical way. Like my body remembers before my mind can catch up. It feels like hitting a wall I didn’t know was still standing. A weight I don’t know how to lift.
I think the grief waited here.
While I was away, the grief and memories of all my loss and trauma softened. Not because it was gone, but because I was gone. Distance gave me space to breathe. My nervous system finally exhaled. But this apartment holds everything from my past three-plus-year relationship. Every piece of furniture. Every object. Where we placed things. How we used them. Nothing here is neutral.
Everything was a mutual decision.
That realization hit me today. Greg will always be here because we built this space together. I will always feel his presence as long as I’m here. Right now, I don’t know if that’s a comfort or a burden. Maybe it’s both.
The Unexpected Comfort
There’s something strange about being thrown back into a grief you thought you had moved through. It doesn’t feel like I am going backward. It feels like there is unfinished business. Like the grief was deferred, waiting for the place where it was born to pick up where I left off.
I just want to sit with it.
There is comfort in this ache, even as it hurts. This space knows everything. It knows the life we were building. It remembers even when I can’t hold it all at once. And maybe that’s why it feels so heavy — because it’s holding too much for me, too much of me.
I don’t know yet what comes next. I don’t know if staying here will help me heal or keep me tethered. I’m not ready to decide that.
For now, I’m allowing the grief to exist where it belongs. I’m letting this place speak. I’m letting myself feel what waited for me to return.
Thanks for reading — xxooC
Tell Me Something Good