Words that stick
...and the subject that never goes away.
I’ve been trying to write about anything other than grief this week. But every time I sit at my desk, my cursor blinks at me on the empty screen—a loud reminder that my brain is simply unable to assemble words around any other subject.
It makes sense, of course. But when you’ve been in the thick of it (for want of a better term) for so long, it can be exhausting—and painful—picking at the same scab over and over again.
I’m stuck in a loop of love and grief and grit. And I’ve had to surrender to the strange reality that I have no choice but to make space in my day to try and unravel the string of sticky words, tangled in my head. If I don’t—if I run away and try to distract myself—I’ve learnt that they show up anyway. Usually, right before bed to force my hand into submission.
And so, I write—unsure whether I even care if my words are read by others anymore. I’m treating this time as a sort of sabbatical. A time to try and make sense of the very heavy subject that I’m seemingly unable to escape from.
While I’m not yet ready to share how I see it all taking form, I know there is some message of resilience amongst it all. There has to be. You cannot be pushed to the edge of unbearable only to step back from the brink unharmed. The wound is there, it’s just about discovering how to heal it—rather than hide it.
Some of you might stick around, some of you might not. But either way, I’ll do my best to show up and hammer into my keyboard, something that feels akin to truth.
Ashley Lowe’s reflection feels like sitting with someone who cannot escape the gravity of grief.
The blinking cursor becomes a wound itself, reminding her that silence cannot erase what insists on being spoken.
She describes the cycle as picking at a scab painful, exhausting, yet impossible to avoid.
Writing becomes survival, less about readers and more about carving space for truth in the dark.
The words arrive unbidden, especially at night, demanding release rather than distraction.
Her surrender is not weakness but courage: facing wounds instead of hiding them.
Resilience emerges quietly, not as triumph but as the fragile act of showing up again.
The wound remains, yet healing begins in the naming, in the hammering of keys.
Readers may drift away, but her commitment is to honesty, not applause.
Ultimately, grief is humanised here as both burden and companion, shaping words that cling because they are alive.
If this space offered you something meaningful, you may support me with a symbolic coffee, warm, of course, and full of heart.
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