I wish people allowed the proper room for grief as they do joy.

I was laid off on July 1st. Leading up to the day that cord was severed, the lump in my throat grew harder. I was tired. Tired of having my work and worth dwindled down to whether the boss was too busy. Tired of leaping over microaggressive landmines. Tired of being watched, dissected and laid bare in the mind of a few against the actions of many. It's a soul tired: a burned-out weariness that only a wailing cry can begin to soothe. I'm a familiar tired now. A tired I haven't seen since 2018. It's compounded by fear and the worry that this is as far as I go.

I sat in a virtual space today when grief was welcomed. Grief was allowed to sit with our inner children. We, being both that child and their caretaker, were given the grace to shed the capes and layers that hold us to the ground. That shield our humanity in order for a sordid superhumaness to break past the wounds still open, still fresh. No one truly knows the grief I hold because I carry it so well. When I break down, it can only be for a while, as I'm expected to triumph. It's my destiny. But when do the destined get to mourn, to grieve, to have doubts, to say the subconscious part outloud, to follow the intrusive thoughts just to the edge? Grief is so pitied, rushed and cooled over. It's unbecoming. As I write this, I'm not at rest. I need a gnashing wail, a break from parenting, an email with an offer, more clients at my digital door. I have bay leaves soaking in boiled water on my stove. My house smells like a success I've prayed for that's waiting for me to see it. I close out in prayer asking for a clearer path and a lighter tomorrow.