“This being human is a guest house.”
— Jalal ad-Din Rumi
I return to this line again and again as I move through my days. Rumi is one of my favorite poets, and his words stay with me because they name something I am living right now. If you’re able, I encourage you to read The Guest House in full — it’s a poem that continues to meet me exactly where I am.
Being human feels exactly like this — a house where experiences arrive whether I am ready or not. Some knock softly. Others come violently sweeping through my house, rearranging everything in their wake.
Grief is here now. It has been a returning guest over the last couple of years. It doesn’t ask permission. It brings raw emotion — anger, sadness, love, longing — sometimes all at once. I understand grief as a guide, but that doesn’t take away what it feels like in my body and my heart. Knowing its wisdom does not erase the ache. Both truths live here together.
I sit with grief as it is. Some days I am mad. Some days I am unbearably sad. And some days, I am able to smile and laugh just a little — in a way that doesn’t make me feel guilty for feeling a bit of happiness. I let myself trust that even this, too, is allowed to enter the house.
Rumi reminds me to invite every visitor in with honor — even when they arrive loudly, even when they stay longer than expected. Sometimes that invitation looks like tears. Sometimes it looks like silence. Sometimes it looks like laughter breaking through the sorrow.
Connection is so important in my life. Right now, it’s hard for me to even want to connect, but I am doing my best not to shut down completely. I believe the more we are vulnerable in our own truths, the more we connect with one another — and with everything this universe is holding space for us in.
A few things I remind myself as I continue to sit with grief:
— Your anger does not negate your wisdom.
— Your profanity does not diminish your depth.
— Be compassionate with yourself and give yourself grace when you find yourself trying to be
wise instead of angry,
evolved instead of shattered, or
grateful for the lesson instead of honest about the hurt.
What follows is a raw, unfiltered letter I wrote in the middle of grief a few nights ago.
It is angry, honest, and unpolished.
I’m sharing it because grief doesn’t always arrive as insight or quiet understanding. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it rages. Sometimes it leaves us begging to be left alone.
Both truths live here.
And we don’t have to pretend everything is okay for meaning to exist.
A Raw, Unfiltered Letter to Grief
I sat with you today. I didn’t want to. I still don’t want to.
Do I want someone to hold my hand right now? Fuck yes. But I don’t want it to be you.
You have no interest in holding me tenderly. All I feel is your hand clasping mine so tight you are breaking my bones and while you are at it you are clutching my heart, squeezing with no mercy so you can watch me writhe around in pain like watching an animal suffering taking its last breath.
I don’t want you near me, beside me, with me, touching me, pretending to nurture me and don’t you even dare try to convince me that your presence is here to love me. Just go away.
I don’t want your company or have you tell me this is a lesson that I am strong enough to walk through. You don’t know that and you damn sure are not a true friend of mine. A true friend wouldn’t let me suffer like this.
My eyes are swollen because of you.
My heart physically aches because of you.
My spirit is battered and bruised because of you.
I don’t want to get up off this couch because of you. So leave me alone. I don’t want you to rip out the heart of anyone else because I know what it feels like to have you in my company.
I don’t want to see you in the morning with my coffee but who is the first one to greet me when I wake up? Yeah, you. You motherfucker.
You go run your errands for a little bit and then pop back in when it’s convenient for you. Just when I am starting to feel a little lighter or have something that resembles a smile on my face, there you are ready to strike again.
You just wait like a fucking ninja out of sight yet you are in plain sight and before I know it you have stripped away any happiness that started to creep its way through the tiniest sliver of the door.
And all you do is sit there next to me. You don’t say a god damn thing. Just sit, watch, observe and offer nothing in return but a dark shadow that blocks out the only sliver of light I have.
I don’t want you here. Did I tell you that already? You aren’t listening to me. You won’t leave me alone. You don’t show me affection or tell me you love me so let go of the grasp you have on me… I’m begging you.
I don’t want you.
I don’t want you.
I don’t want you.
I don’t want to cry anymore.
Sharing this raw moment with grief brought me back to Rumi again.
It allowed me to sit with grief in a way I wouldn’t have been able to without letting myself feel it fully — without trying to soften it or move past it too quickly.
By sharing my experience, perhaps someone will feel a little gentler with themselves — or a little less alone in their grief. I am walking through this too.
May you walk with love in your heart,
and may you know — deeply — that you are not alone.
All my love,
Michelle
