A softer kind of emotional literacy
And the many shapes of hard feelings
I’ve always thought hard emotions had to be loud and visible to count. That they come crashing down, palpable and unruly.
But then loss arrived.
Twice.
And it barely made a sound.
We’re led to believe in the narrative of emotions that we see in movies and social media. You know those darkly cinematic ones— where you scream at strangers and cry in the middle of the chocolate aisle at a grocery store. A piano medley plays in the background and pain is scripted to fall like torrential rain. Afterwards, you drown in a bathtub of ice-cream or, worse, drugs.
Well, my journey of navigating loss looked nothing like it.
I still did the dishes, replied to emails, hung out with friends, and even laughed at memes. My loss was quiet, effervescing in the margins of my consciousness. My grief didn’t roar at the world around me but simply observed it with a vacant mind. I didn’t forget things but I questioned all of it. My routine never changed but the meaning it offered slowly eroded. Sadness wasn’t a violent, deafening puppeteer, but it hovered in the shadows like a moody roommate.
They say everyone experiences adversity differently but are we truly prepared to understand and accept that truth? Our culture privileges what can be seen like tears or chaos. Suffering that is performative. It’s why mental health issues, burnout, loneliness, chronic illness, and miscarriages are often underestimated.
When I showed up to places rather than looming in the corners of my bedroom, people assumed I was over it. Some called me resilient, others wondered (loudly) if I cared enough.
I cared. And I was certainly not over it.
Stick with me here but I also held a certain indifference to being called resilient. More often than not, resilience was an easier explanation than accepting my brand of loss. One that was invisible and didn’t look rough enough.
Mental fortitude is admirable but our obsession with it flattens the complexity of strong, challenging emotions like grief, anxiety, or fear. These sentiments can co-exist with outward normalcy. The danger of not acknowledging this is that we can often feel pressured to return to our ‘usual selves’ soon.
The point of this essay is not my story alone but to reframe how we acknowledge and experience painful feelings. It’s wonderful to live life like we’re in the movies but perhaps a tad much to expect an Oscar worthy performance as validation of challenges.
Let’s break away from the language of ‘moving on’ and ‘be strong’ and leave room for ambiguity. We need a more generous language for hardships; one that embraces ‘normalcy.’ A kind of emotional literacy that doesn’t always expect distress to be clothed in sobs and snot.
Ask yourself:
What if not all hard feelings disrupt our calendars but quietly reorder our sense of meaning?
Don’t they still deserve compassion?
Self realisation is hard to practice but when you start realising that whatever you see around is maya , there begins happiness….😊😊
Today jolly ,tomorrow gaali(in tamil)😜😜
This isn't spoken about enough. You're right, the movies picture grieving as being immovable, crying in the shower, the inability to carry on. But what about when life demands to be tended to, when there is no option to lie in bed for days on end, surrounded by tissues and empty ice-cream tubs? What about when life demands you grieve and also still move through life carrying the same amount of responsibility, just with less capacity, heart-space, and brain-space to handle it all? What about the part of us screaming to not be called strong, but instead have the chance to melt into softness, into a moment that doesn't ask grit and resilience of our aching hearts? This is the reality of grief, of complex emotions, in a world that calls us resilient to avoid having to sit with us in our most tender moments. Thank you for speaking on this.