Paralysis

Grief, Paralysis, and an Unexpected Mirror Lately, I’ve found myself stuck—glued to my bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to gather the energy to do something as basic as taking a shower. The thought of completing even the smallest task—picking up my medication, brushing my hair—feels overwhelming. My therapist says it’s part of the grief. I believe her. But knowing the reason doesn’t make it any easier. The only time I feel remotely okay is when I’m teaching. In the classroom—virtual or physical—I feel a brief flicker of myself again. It’s the one place where the fog lifts, where purpose overcomes paralysis. And that’s exactly how Sana was. Teaching wasn’t just her job. It was her joy, her anchor, her spark. I remember how she would light up talking about her students, how much thought she put into her lessons, how she poured love into every moment of her work. Even on the hard days, teaching gave her a reason to get up. But I also remember something else—her quiet confessions. How overwhelmed she sometimes felt by the mundane: doing laundry, making a meal, even just leaving the house. At the time, I supported her, of course. I listened. I tried to understand. But I’d be lying if I said I never felt frustrated. I couldn’t fully grasp why something so “simple” could feel so impossible. And now here I am. In the same boat. Every errand feels insurmountable. Every to-do list looks like a mountain. And with this experience comes a wave of realization—and regret. Because now I understand. I understand the heavy weight Sana carried, not just in her body, but in her mind. I understand how grief and depression can rob you of motivation, how even love for your work can be the only thread keeping you connected to life. I understand why she found refuge in her classroom, why she sometimes withdrew from the world outside of it. Maybe I’m going through this for a reason—not as punishment, but as a window. A way to feel what she felt, to sit more deeply with her experience. To have compassion not just for her, but for the millions who live each day fighting invisible battles. Grief is not linear. It doesn’t come with a checklist. Some days I’ll manage. Some days I won’t. But if there’s one thing this pain is teaching me, it’s this: empathy often comes when we least expect it—when we’re brought to our knees by the very weight we once tried to understand from a distance. If you’re reading this and feeling stuck, you’re not alone. There’s no shame in finding basic tasks overwhelming. There’s no shame in needing help. And there’s no weakness in grieving. There is only love. And love, even in its aching form, is never wasted.