When the Words Come Slowly(and the Grief Comes Loud)

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a strange ache—the kind that hums below the surface of ordinary days. It’s quiet, but persistent. It shows up in grocery aisles and laundry folds, and in songs I thought I had outgrown and memories I didn’t mean to unlock. If I’m honest, I think I’ve been circling around the idea of writing something bigger for years… but grief complicates creativity. It slows the words and distorts perspective. It softens the edges and sharpens the heart, all at once.

I don’t quite know how to tell this part of the story yet—not publicly, anyway. But something has been stirring in the background, growing root and language inside the wreckage. It’s tender and raw, and not ready for shelves. But I think I’m finally ready to sit with it on the page.

Writing through grief feels like trying to capture fog. It shifts the moment you get close. One day I feel brave enough to revisit the pain, and the next I stare at a blinking cursor, unsure if I have the right to speak it aloud. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve healed enough to write about it—or if writing is how I will heal. That tension? I live there now.

It’s wild how the deepest ache can live right next to the fiercest joy. And sometimes, joy comes disguised—as an old prayer I forgot I wrote, a dusty notebook filled with half-sentences, or a candle that smells like home. I’ve found joy in small things lately. In telling the truth to the page, even if I don’t share it. In sketching out structure without pressure. In letting a holy sort of hope rise, even when I don’t feel finished.

What I’m discovering is this: grief is not a detour from joy—it’s part of the path. And somewhere in the quiet, there’s a story forming. Maybe I’m writing it for someone else. Maybe I’m writing it for me. I don’t know yet.

But I do know this: the words will wait until we’re ready to hold them. And maybe one day, those words will hold someone else.

So if you’ve found yourself in a season where the story feels too heavy to name, you’re not alone. If joy feels distant and grief feels shapeless—write anyway. Sing anyway. Walk through it anyway. Even unfinished, your voice is still true.

Stay close to the quiet. There’s something holy unfolding there.