I Swear You Will Be Fine

At one point in this grief journey, I was worried that I’d end up becoming one of those bitter people who can’t stand to see others happy. I was heading in that direction for a few months. I would avoid looking at happy families on the street, happy couples online – I even resorted to unfollowing over a thousand people on Instagram to avoid seeing other people’s seemingly perfect lives. I felt like I could never match up to their level of happiness and success in life, and I know I probably never will. I define success as academic achievements, a high-paying job, fulfillment in one’s career, a happy and loving family – basically, overall satisfaction with life. These were things I once considered attainable. I was always working towards my definition of success. Now, I don’t think I will ever reach that. And looking at how others can and will achieve that is awful. I just became so bitter and sour looking at how happy everyone was. Because even if I achieve the career aspects of success, I’ll never feel content because I can never fulfill the partner and family part of it. In that aspect, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will never be successful because I will never be happy with my life. And I think I just couldn’t stand looking at all the successful people online with their happy partners, surprise pregnancies, engagement announcements, etc. As happy as I am with you, people my age will never know the grief of losing their partner, and they will always have someone with them through all stages of their life. I can be independent and enjoy my own company (in these months, I’ve learned how to), but there’ll always be this loneliness I’ve yet to befriend, living inside me.

Recently, however, I’ve been feeling a change. I still don’t think I will ever be successful or content with my life, but I’m starting to feel happy for people. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still immensely sad when I see others living my dream, but I don’t feel as bitter anymore. In fact, I’ve started rooting for other people’s happiness. When I see a couple online posting about their wedding, I find myself hoping that they truly work out. Earlier this year, an influencer couple I follow announced that they were expecting their first child. It’s the couple you and I thought seemed a lot like us – they laugh a lot together, make similar jokes with each other, and act the way we do around each other. Their baby boy was born a few weeks ago and the couple is nothing but happy. They post about how they laugh and joke together while changing diapers, dance around their child in a very sleep-deprived state, joke about silly names they could have given their baby… And I found myself feeling so happy for them. I see you and I a lot in them, and watching them do everything we talked about doing felt… nice. I felt so glad that they finally had a baby, that their baby arrived healthy, and that they are enjoying parenthood. I was so happy, but so envious. I think that’s how I’ll be from now on – happy but envious. I know that’s not the best state to be in, but I think I’d rather be that than bitter and sour. My mindset now is something like, “if we couldn’t have it, maybe others can”. I’ll just live vicariously through these happy couples and my little made-up scenarios of us.

With this “other people should be happy” mindset, I feel like I sometimes struggle to cope with other people’s sadness too. It’s almost like I can’t stand tragedy, even if it does not actually affect me. If I read a book with a sad ending, I have to make up a happy one to cope with it. If I intend to watch a movie or TV series, I have to Google the ending so that I can manage my emotions. A few weeks ago, a woman I occasionally see on Instagram posted a poem about her recent miscarriage. I’ve seen her and her family a few times online and enjoyed watching them, mostly because they are an interracial family – she’s Chinese, her husband’s Indian, and they have a baby girl. Her poem about her recent miscarriage was heartbreaking, and though I have never been pregnant or had a miscarriage (obviously), I just felt her sadness so strongly that I cried – embarrassingly so – at the end of her poem. I can hear you saying, “Aw, yeah, that is really, really tough… That is really sad” and giving me a hug or patting my head to comfort me.

I don’t really know where to go with this sudden influx of empathy. I can also see you laughing at this. You’d probably say, “Finally!” and tell me to enjoy it with a mischievous grin. I guess this is another way grief has changed me (again). I can’t exactly complain, though. Like I said, I’d rather be happy and envious than bitter and sad. And I think you would want me to be as kind as I can be to those who deserve it. I’ll just reciprocate everyone’s kindness. You wouldn’t want me to be foolishly kind too. I’ll accept that.

I can’t wait to see you again. I love you more, always, and forever.

Love always,
Sha