After the funeral, people go home.
That’s the part that stays with you.
At first there’s still noise. Messages. People checking in. Then it thins out. Not in a dramatic way. Just less of everything.
You notice it when your phone stays quiet.
Life restarts for everyone else. Work. Plans. Normal conversations. You’re meant to slot back in like something hasn’t changed permanently.
It has.
The funeral feels like it should be a marker. Before and after. But nothing actually ends there. It’s more like that’s when you’re left alone with it.
There’s no script for what comes next. No one really asks anymore. Or if they do, they expect a short answer.
So you give one.
Some days you function. Other days you don’t. Both feel wrong in different ways. Being okay feels like a betrayal. Not being okay feels like a problem.
Grief changes after the funeral. It gets quieter and heavier at the same time. It shows up in normal moments. In shops. In work meetings. When you’re meant to be paying attention to something else.
That part catches people off guard.
You might feel worse weeks later than you did at the start. That can make you panic a bit. Like you’re going backwards. Like you missed the window where you were allowed to fall apart.
But nothing actually reset. Other people just moved on.
If you’re in that stage, feeling like the support ran out too soon, you’re not imagining it. This is the part most people don’t talk about.
It’s not dramatic. It’s just lonely.
That’s the part that stays with you.
At first there’s still noise. Messages. People checking in. Then it thins out. Not in a dramatic way. Just less of everything.
You notice it when your phone stays quiet.
Life restarts for everyone else. Work. Plans. Normal conversations. You’re meant to slot back in like something hasn’t changed permanently.
It has.
The funeral feels like it should be a marker. Before and after. But nothing actually ends there. It’s more like that’s when you’re left alone with it.
There’s no script for what comes next. No one really asks anymore. Or if they do, they expect a short answer.
So you give one.
Some days you function. Other days you don’t. Both feel wrong in different ways. Being okay feels like a betrayal. Not being okay feels like a problem.
Grief changes after the funeral. It gets quieter and heavier at the same time. It shows up in normal moments. In shops. In work meetings. When you’re meant to be paying attention to something else.
That part catches people off guard.
You might feel worse weeks later than you did at the start. That can make you panic a bit. Like you’re going backwards. Like you missed the window where you were allowed to fall apart.
But nothing actually reset. Other people just moved on.
If you’re in that stage, feeling like the support ran out too soon, you’re not imagining it. This is the part most people don’t talk about.
It’s not dramatic. It’s just lonely.
