Post:
People see me smiling in public…
Getting things done.
Showing up.
Taking care of others.
But what they don’t see is what happens when I get home.
The tears I wipe away before walking into a room.
The conversations I still have with my son, my husband, my mom—just to feel close.
The way grief sits quietly in my chest while I’m laughing at someone’s joke.
Grief in public is a quiet kind of strength.
It’s not about pretending.
It’s about surviving while the world keeps spinning.
We often celebrate visible strength—bold moves, loud triumphs.
But I want to honor the kind of strength that whispers:
“Just make it through this hour.”
“Smile for your children.”
“Keep breathing… even when your heart is heavy.”
🌿 The strongest people I know are the ones who grieve in silence but still show up in love.
The ones who cry in the car but walk into the building with grace.
The ones who carry loss like a scar—visible only to those who truly look close.
This post is for you if you’ve ever been told:
“You’re so strong.”
And you wanted to respond:
“I don’t feel strong. I’m just surviving.”
God’s grace meets us right there—not in our strength, but in our surrender.
And sometimes, the way we carry grief in public is the most sacred offering we can give.
If you’re someone who carries grief quietly, this is your reminder: You are seen. You are strong. You are held.
Share this with someone who may look “put together” but is quietly grieving behind the scenes.
