Mental Health Awareness Week: Learning to Love Better (Even Through Grief)
This past week
tested me in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
I went through the stages of grief❤not because someone died, but because something in my spirit shifted.
Shock. Denial.
Anger. Sadness.
I felt them all.
Sometimes it’s not a death that causes grief❤it’s a realization. A mirror held up to your choices. A silence between two people that once felt like home.
For me, truth has always mattered. I’ve always searched for facts, trying to understand things from more than just my own feelings. But this week, I had to face something deeper: I am not a victim of my life👀I am a co-author of it.
I’ve learned from past mistakes. I know now that most wrong decisions don’t start with actions👀they start with thoughts. A moment of emotional weakness. A split-second where you let something tempting grow inside you, when your relationship is already tired or disconnected.
And it can
happen to anyone.
We’re human.
Phones, TVs, games… we live in loud worlds full of distractions. And in that noise, it’s so easy to overlook the one person who matters most👀the one right beside you.
This week
reminded me:
💔 We are not
responsible for our partners' actions.
❤ But we are responsible for how we treat them.
That truth hurt. Because I realized I hadn’t always given my husband the attention he deserved. I didn’t do anything malicious👀but I let the weight of daily stress, social media, my hustle, and my pain come first.
Healing means
being honest. Not blaming. Not defending.
Just… feeling it all and facing the part you played.
Pushing for truth doesn’t always mean shouting your version louder. Sometimes it means listening to the hurt behind someone’s actions. Understanding how their bottle got empty❤and how maybe, just maybe, you weren’t refilling it either.
A relationship
is like two bottles that need filling. With words. With kindness. With
presence.
No matter what
happens next, I’m grateful.
Grateful that
pain woke me up.
Grateful for
the chance to grow.
💛 Emotional
comfort Soft throw blanket
“My Safe Space
Blanket”
📖 Reflection
& journaling Guided or lined journal
“My
Truth-Telling Journal”
🕯 Calm &
grounding Candle or essential oil diffuser
“My Peace
Ritual”
🎨 Healing
creativity Acrylic paint pen set or mini art kit
“My Creative
Escape”
☕ Affirming
morning mindset Inspirational mug or affirmation deck
“My Morning
Reminder”
Chapter 12 – Blood in the Snow by My Son
👀 “Do you
remember my name?”
The mirror
asked.
And everything
changed.
Chapter 12
Breakfast was quiet. Too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the kind that’s full of weight. Like the walls were listening. Like the silence was holding its breath, waiting for something.
Mom talked about the cold snap and whether the pipes would freeze again. Dad grunted about the woodpile needing restacking. They sounded normal. Too normal.
But across the
table, he sat smiling.
That smile didn’t belong to him.
I know how my brother used to smile—lopsided, lazy, like he was too tired to show he cared. But this one? It was too even. Like he was rehearsing it in a mirror. Like he didn’t fully understand why people smile, just that it was the right thing to do.
He buttered his toast left to right, just like always. But the motion was too smooth, too exact, like he was copying it from a memory that wasn’t his. He didn’t even look down. Just stared. At me.
I stirred my
cereal until it went soggy.
“You feeling okay?” I asked, casual. Light.
His smile
twitched just a little wider.
“Never better,” he said. “I love mornings.”
He hates mornings.
He used to sleep till noon if we let him, muttering curses under his breath if anyone dared to wake him. Now he was bright-eyed and chipper. And wide awake before all of us.
Mom didn’t
notice. Neither did Dad.
Of course they didn’t.
After breakfast, I slipped back to my room. The door creaked a little as I opened it, and I hesitated before stepping inside.
Everything looked the same. My pile of books near the window. The pen mug from the lodge. The old quilt. But the bed was made.
I didn’t make my bed
And the mirror—
It was fogged over. Like someone had breathed on it.
I walked up slowly. In the middle of the condensation, someone had written five words with their finger:
Do you remember my name?
My heart nearly stopped. I wiped it away with my sleeve and backed up so fast I bumped the desk. The closet door creaked open slightly behind me. I didn’t check it.
I just left.
The rest of the day passed like a slow leak. Like time itself had sprung a hole. I went outside to get firewood—he followed me.
Said he didn’t
want me getting lost.
He didn’t wear gloves. He didn’t shiver.
When we were kids, he hated the cold. I remember him crying once when his fingers went numb. But now? He stood in the snow like it was nothing.
At dinner, he told a story about Daisy. Said she once chased her own reflection into the lake, barking like mad. Mom laughed. Dad chuckled.
But that never happened.
Daisy drowned
before that winter.
He got the memory wrong.
And nobody noticed.
But I did.
I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t even try. I sat under the covers, wide-eyed, barely breathing, watching the clock crawl toward 2 a.m.
Then I heard it.
Footsteps in the hallway. Light. Barefoot. Careful.
They stopped in front of my door.
I pressed my ear to the wood and held my breath. A whisper followed—dry and soft, like paper folding over itself. I couldn’t make out the words, but I felt them. Felt them slide across my skin like cold fingertips.
The steps moved again. Back down the hall. Toward his room.
When I finally opened the door, the hallway was empty.
Except for the footprints.
Small, wet prints. Bare feet. Too small to be his. Too wide to be a child’s.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.
I just sat down at my desk. Opened my journal. And started writing.
[Diary Entry –
January 13th, 1978]
He’s not my
brother.
I don’t know what he is. But he’s not him.
There are things he remembers wrong. And other things he shouldn’t know—but does. He watches me like he’s waiting for me to slip up. Like he’s studying me.
And sometimes I swear I catch him mouthing things under his breath when no one else is looking.
Mom and Dad are
still blind to it. But I think that won’t last much longer.
It’s creeping
toward them, whatever this is.
Whatever he is.
I won’t run. I
won’t play dumb.
I’ll figure this out. I have to.
Even if it kills me.
I watched him from behind the cracked doorframe.
He was in the living room, just… sitting. Staring at the static screen of the old Zenith like it was playing something only he could see. His head tilted occasionally—too sharply, like a dog hearing a sound out of range. His hands lay perfectly still on his lap, fingers curled inward like dried leaves. No tapping. No twitching. Nothing.
That was the first sign. My brother never sat still.
I waited for nearly thirty minutes, my legs aching and the wood floor biting into my knees, but he never moved. Not even when Mom called out that breakfast was ready. Not even when Dad passed by, muttering about picking up supplies.
He only spoke when he was alone. Whispering.
I couldn’t hear the words through the door. But I caught the rhythm—like a chant or a nursery rhyme. It made my scalp itch.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I slipped out of my room. I wore the thick socks that muffled my steps, the flashlight tucked into my sleeve like a secret.
He was gone from his bed. The sheets were neat. Too neat.
I left the hallway light off and crept downstairs. The old boards moaned under my weight, but I held my breath and moved between the creaks.
The living room was dark except for the TV. It flickered faintly, not static now, but a strange deep-blue screen with no image. The air was heavy—like something had been breathing in it all day.
I heard the whispering again.
Not from the couch. From the basement door.
I moved closer, barely breathing.
He was talking to someone.
His voice was hushed and sharp. Like he was arguing. But the second voice—it was wrong. Guttural. Wet. Like trying to speak through water and broken glass.
“I told you I’m
trying,” he said.
Then silence.
Then: “No. Not her. Not yet.”
My stomach turned.
I backed away, slowly, every hair on my neck standing. Just before I turned to leave, the door creaked open an inch. I froze.
I could see his
eye through the gap.
He was staring directly at me.
But he didn’t say a word. He just smiled.
I ran.
Didn’t stop until I was locked in my room. I shoved the dresser against the door. I could still hear my heartbeat in my ears
I waited until morning to move it. When I opened the door again, the house was quiet. Sunlight bled weakly through the hallway window.
And my brother
was sitting at the breakfast table, sipping juice.
Like nothing ever happened.
But his smile lingered too long when he looked at me.
This week’s chapter is one of the most chilling yet. A story of a brother who returns… but isn’t quite himself. It's a reminder that not all ghosts wear sheets. Sometimes they wear familiar smiles and butter toast like they always did. Until you notice something… off.
Read the full
chapter above and tell us in the comments:
What would you do if someone you loved came back… wrong?
My Waveful Journey Update 💫
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📲 Apps & Tools That Made This Blog Possible
A huge thank you to the following tools and apps that helped bring all this to life:
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🐾 Bee Happy Paws, Claws and More
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