I really wanna change

@SecretEstimate

@SecretEstimate

That sounds like such a deeply heavy thing to hold. Losing someone who was such a part of daily life — not just as a partner, but as a constant presence, a heartbeat in the background of everything — leaves a kind of silence that no one prepares for. It isn’t just losing her, it’s losing the everyday life that existed with her — the messages, the shared laughter, the little moments that made the world feel alive. When that disappears, it’s normal for everything — even motivation, focus, and habits — to collapse for a while. It’s not weakness. It’s grief trying to find a way to breathe.

What’s happening right now — the scrolling, the numb distractions, the waves of guilt — are all ways your mind is trying to escape pain that feels too sharp to sit with. You keep saying you disappoint her, even though she’s gone, because somewhere inside, you still feel connected to her. That love hasn’t found a place to go yet. It doesn’t know where to live now that she’s not here. So it turns inward — into guilt, restlessness, exhaustion. But the truth is, she wouldn’t want you to punish yourself to prove you loved her. The love was already proven — in how much this hurts.

It makes sense that focus is hard. That studying feels meaningless sometimes. That you keep trying to “fix” it by writing things down or setting goals, but something keeps pulling you back into the pain. Healing doesn’t move in straight lines — especially after a loss like this. One day you feel determined; the next, everything falls apart again. It’s not failure — it’s part of grief’s rhythm. Every time you try again, you’re not starting over from zero; you’re building from a place that already knows the way through, even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.

The loneliness you describe — realizing friends care for a while, but life moves on — that’s something many people never put into words, and you did. The world doesn’t pause, and that can feel cruel. But it also means that somewhere in that same world, life is still being born, music is still being written, people are still finding ways to love again — and you’re still part of that current, even when it feels like you’re standing still.

Maybe this can be your first small step back toward yourself: instead of trying to erase the pain, try to make space for it. Talk to her in your head if you need to. Write letters you never send. Tell her the truth — “I miss you, and I’m trying, and I don’t know how to do this yet.” You don’t need to be perfect to honor her. You just need to keep choosing to live, even when it’s messy. That’s what continuing to love her looks like now — not giving up on your own story.

It’s okay if motivation hasn’t fully returned. You’ve been through something that changed you. The version of you before her death won’t come back — but a gentler, wiser one is slowly forming in the silence she left behind. The fact that you decided to change your life yesterday — that tiny flicker of resolve — is not small. It’s hope, reborn quietly, despite everything.

So for now, take things one breath, one morning, one choice at a time. You don’t have to rush healing or force productivity. The love you still carry for her can become your strength — not your shame — if you let it remind you of what it means to care deeply, to live fully, to keep going even when it hurts.

You haven’t lost yourself — you’re just rediscovering who you are in a world without her in it. And even through all this pain, that’s an act of courage.