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You expect to cry. You expect the heaviness, the fog, the way your body feels like it's moving through water. What you don't expect is the rage that arrives without warning. Someone says the wrong thing at the funeral. Your partner asks what's for dinner. A stranger takes too long at the checkout. And suddenly you're white-knuckling the steering wheel, or slamming cupboards, or saying things you can't take back. Then the guilt lands. What's wrong with me? I should be sad, not

You're still showing up. Still going to work. Still making meals, replying to messages, getting things done. From the outside, you look fine. Maybe even productive. But something's different. There's a heaviness you can't name. A numbness where feeling used to be. You're moving through your days, but you're not really in them. And when people ask how you're doing, you say "fine" because you don't know what else to say. You're not sobbing in the car or unable to get out of bed