Adulting = Grieving

Hello peeps. 

For some reason, after 9 years, I’m back.
(Not sure if it's for good or not)

Time has passed, and as it is destined to do, without asking our permission or waiting for us to finish processing the previous chapter. 

There is that famous quote that says:

"The only constant in this world is change." 

Rather annoying, really, because one would hope for a more comforting constant. 

But no.

Everything changes. 

People change. Feelings change. Money comes and goes. Dreams inflate, resurrect themselves, and sometimes, very quietly, stop mattering.

 

Even the things we once thought were permanent, slowly shift under our feet.

And apparently, accepting change is part of adulting.

Sounds simple, right?

It is not.

Especially for some people (read: me) with attachment issues. Haha.

Nothing really lasts in the form we first loved it. People, feelings, money, dreams, phases of life, routines, friendships, versions of ourselves. None of them stay exactly the same. 

People come and go. Death happens. Relationship ends. And even when people remain physically present, sometimes it is only an illusion of sameness. They are still there, yes, but something has changed. The warmth is different. The conversation has lost its old rhythm. The chat no longer feels tender. The person is still breathing, but the version of them we knew has quietly.... left us.

People are like that too.

They flow. They change. They become different. And sometimes, painfully, so do we.

Because sometimes, the change is not only in them.

Sometimes, as time goes by, we change too. Our experiences, our wounds, our healing, our knowledge, our disappointments, our answered and unanswered prayers... All of these quietly shape the lens through which we see people and life.

And then one day, without ceremony, we realise things differently.

The person we used to love or idealise is not as flawless as we once imagined. 

The person we used to hate is perhaps not as monstrous as we painted them to be. 

The dream we chased so desperately may not be worth the peace we sacrificed for it. 

The money we used to hoard may suddenly feel rather meaningless when the heart is tired, when the house is empty, or when the people we love are no longer around to share it with.

What a strange kind of growing up is this?

To realise that some of our grief is not only for people who changed, but for the way we used to see them. For the innocence of our old beliefs and trusts. For certainty of our old ambitions. For the little foolishness we once clung to with both hands and called 'forever'.

Because growing up is not only about losing people. Sometimes, it is about losing illusions. And illusions, I must say, can be terribly dramatic when they die.

In the end, people do not always remain as they were.

They become fragments.

A phrase you remember.

A feeling you cherish.

A smell you recognise.

A story you repeat.

A place you avoid.

A flower you hate.

A song you suddenly cannot listen to.

Small pieces of memory we hold onto, 

just to keep them alive a little longer 'with us'.

Perhaps these past few years have taught me that people may only stay with us for certain parts of our lives. That sounds cruel, I know. But maybe it's true. Maybe some people are only meant to accompany us for a chapter, not the whole book. Once their role in our life is complete, then - khalas, sadaqallah.

No matter how much we try. No matter how much we gently hold on. No matter how much we water the relationship, protect it, excuse it, revive it, defend it. Sometimes, it still ends. Not always with a dramatic goodbye or fistfight. Sometimes it ends quietly. A slower reply. A colder tone. A later that becomes never. A silence that explains itself.

We cannot keep everyone. 

People die. People lose interest. People stop loving us. People outgrow us. Sometimes, we outgrow them too (though we rarely admit that part because it makes us feel less innocence in our own sadness)

And we grieve.

So yes, maybe adulting (or actually, living) is a constant process of grieving.

I do not mean grief as something entirely negative. People often give grief such a frightening reputation, as if it only belongs to flatlines, deathbeds and funerals. But grief is much broader than that.

Grief is a byproduct of survival. What happens when the soul is adjusting to a new reality. It is like an emotional price of change. The price of having loved something, believed in something, hoped for something - but now, no longer the same.

• We may grieve people who are still alive.
• We may grieve dreams that are still technically possible.
• We may grieve friendships that still exist, but no longer feel like home.
• We may grieve conversations that used to be tender but now feel distant.
• We may grieve jokes that no longer land the same way.
• We may grieve routines, versions of ourselves, places, memories, and even something as simple as coffee that no longer tastes as comforting as it used to.

Personally, I think grieving a living person or an unfinished dream can be harder.

Because it feels like an internal war.

One part of you is mourning what has been lost. That part wants closure. It wants to bury the old version properly, recite a tahlil over it and walk away with dignity.

But another part of you keeps negotiating.

That person is still breathing.

That dream is still possible.

That door is not fully closed.

Maybe there is still another chance.

Maybe if I try harder.

Maybe if I wait longer.

Maybe if I become better, prettier, smarter, more useful, more successful, less intense, less myself.

And that is what makes it more painful. You are grieving something that has not completely disappeared. You are mourning something that still has a shadow. Something that still send reminders. Something that exists just enough to keep hope alive. 

And hope, in this particular context, ladies and gentlemen, is not the noble, poetic, rainbow-after-rain sort of hope. No. This is the cruel kind of hope. The kind that keeps you checking, waiting, interpreting, overthinking, rereading, reimagining and resurrecting possibilities that should have been buried 99 breakdowns ago. 

Hope, here, can be crueler than Pharaoh, and with absolutely no shame, make us behave stupider than Donald Trump announcing victory over Iran while somehow standing in the middle of a loss. There, I said it.

Adulting is hard for many reasons. Firstly, because the older we get, the older the people around us become. Our parents age. Our friends get busy. We get busy. Everyone is tired, everyone has bills, everyone has responsibilities and suddenly, the people we once spent hours talking now require a million of tags on WhatsApp, calendar invites and emotional availability that must be scheduled six months in advance.

Transitions happen abruptly. One day we are laughing freely with someone, and the next, replying to each other feels like emailing your lecturer/employer appealing for deadline's extension. One day a dream feels certain. The next, you are sitting quietly, looking up to the sky, wondering whether you ever truly wanted it, or whether you simply wanted the version of yourself you thought would exist once you achieved it.

And as adults, we are expected to be strong.

Children can cry openly. Children can say, “I miss them.” Children can ask why things changed. No one gives them a side-eye or laughs at them. In fact, they are usually hugged, comforted and if the adults are feeling particularly generous, treated with free ice cream. 

Adults? We don't get hugs or free ice cream. 

Adults are expected to understand. To accept. To move on. To remain composed. To grieve quietly, in between responsibilities, deadlines, family duties, work, and unanswered messages, and pretending we are "just tired" and repeating our mojo: "I'm fine". Again and again. Ironically, until even we almost believe it.

But maybe we should allow ourselves to grieve more honestly.

Maybe we should be kinder to ourselves.

Maybe we should be kinder to others too, because everyone is grieving something. Some griefs are obvious. Others are hidden beneath jokes, productivity, silence, sarcasm, sudden distance or the very convincing "I'm okay." Not everyone who looks fine is fine. Some people are simply excellent at functioning while quietly falling apart in well-organised sections. 

So, to my dearself, and to anyone reading this:

Let us give ourselves room to grieve. Please. 

Let us not shame ourselves for missing people. Let us not call ourselves weak for needing time. Let us not pretend that moving on means we were never hurt. Moving on does not mean the loss was meaningless. It only means we have decided not to let the loss become the whole story.

At the same time, we must also move on.

Not because it is easy. Not because we have forgotten. Not because it no longer matters.

But because life moves on.

That is perhaps one of the most bitter truths: life does not pause just because our hearts are broken. The sun still rises. People still make plans. Messages still come in. Responsibilities still wait. The world continues with or without our permission. Laundry, with absolutely no compassion to us, still exists.

So the question is not whether life will move on.

It will.

The question is whether we will move along with it.

Because imagine fighting against life forever. Imagine standing in the middle of the river, begging the same water to return. It will not. And perhaps peace begins when we stop trying to force what has already passed to come back exactly as it was.

Maybe moving on is not betrayal.

Maybe it is simply tawakkul.

Maybe it is accepting that what left us was never outside Allah’s knowledge. What stayed was by His mercy. What changed was by His wisdom. What broke us may still, somehow, return us to Him.

In the end, we only have Allah.
The only permanence we were ever meant to rely on.

And wakafā billāh.

(Allah is sufficient)

Yours older now,

Rasyidah.