Grief doesn’t arrive politely. It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t wait until you’ve cleared your calendar or built up your resilience. It just shows up, uninvited, inconvenient, and fully expecting you to know what to do with it.
But what if you were never taught?
What if you grew up in a house where emotions were something to suppress, not express? Where crying was dramatic, anger was unacceptable, and sadness was a weakness best hidden behind a smile or silence? What if you learned early that being ‘too much’ made people uncomfortable, so you became less, and less, and less?
When you’ve been shaped by emotional neglect, you don’t just feel grief, you try to manage it. Quietly. Logically. And out of the way.
You make brews. You hold it in. You stay composed. You sit with your pain like it’s an unwelcome guest you’ve learned to host politely. You don’t wail or unravel. You fold laundry and remember to charge your phone and make sure the others are okay.
And people might call you strong, but it’s not strength. It’s survival.
This week, grief has been present in the background of my life like an old radio on low volume. Not blaring. Not silent. Just there. I’ve been watching others navigate the messy first steps of loss while I sit inside something I’ve already processed, or at least, something I’ve already made space for.
That’s the difference when you’ve had to teach yourself emotional literacy as an adult. You carry the weight early. You prepare. You become the one who knows how to hold things, not just for yourself, but for everyone else too.
And the truth is, I am more equipped now. I’ve done the work. I’ve stared into the shadows of who I was told to be and found someone else waiting, someone grounded, someone capable, someone who remains calm in the storm.
But emotional neglect doesn’t leave quietly. It haunts the way you speak, the way you love, the way you grieve. It’s in the words you don’t say. The tears you don’t cry. The support you don’t ask for.
Still, healing is possible. Not through grand gestures or perfect closure, but through small moments of honesty. Through catching yourself mid withdrawal and choosing connection instead. Through learning that being open isn’t weak. That showing up for yourself is a skill. That grief doesn’t have to be loud to be real.
So no, I’m not distant. I’m not cold. I’m not unbothered.
I’m just doing what I was never taught. And for once, I think I’m doing it well 💜
Thirty Something Plus VAT 
I felt every word of this because, in so many ways, it mirrors my own story. Grief doesn’t politely knock at my door either; it kicks it in, tracks mud on the floor, and makes itself comfortable while I pretend to be fine, offering it tea. And you’re so right… When you grow up in a house where emotions had to be swallowed, grief becomes something you manage, not something you’re allowed to feel.
I see so much of myself in this, the quiet composure while your insides ache. And it’s not strength, it’s survival. But like you, I’ve started teaching myself a new way, one small honest moment at a time.
Thank you for putting language to something so many of us live in silence. This was beautiful, raw, and needed.
Mae🧡
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Your words hit just as hard as you say mine did, so thank you.
That image of grief barging in, muddy footprints and all, while we smile and offer it tea… it’s painfully accurate. And yeah, it isn’t strength, is it? It’s survival dressed up in quiet.
I’m really glad you’re teaching yourself a new way too. One honest moment at a time sounds about right, that’s where the healing lives.
Thank you for reading, and for meeting this with your truth 🫶
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