Sadness has a softness to it, a quiet pull that feels like sinking into an old armchair—worn, familiar, and somehow just right. A quiet, heavy blanket that wraps you in a warm hug, like a childhood sweater you can’t bear to throw out. It’s not the kind of hurt that hits you fresh and raw. No, this is different. It’s the quiet that settles in after the storm, a companion you didn’t invite but can’t imagine leaving. Grief doesn’t vanish; it lingers like a fever dream, curling up in the corners of your chest. And over time, that presence stops feeling like a burden and starts feeling like home.
I was thirteen the first time I noticed it. Rain streaked the window of my dad’s car, and I sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the blur of the world, a lump in my throat I couldn’t explain. We were driving past my old school, the playground where I’d once raced my best friend to the swings now empty under the gray sky. I’d left that place six years ago, yet the sting felt fresh, as sharp as ever. I remembered how I’d never really said goodbye to her, and the ache deepened. The sadness wasn’t loud or overwhelming; it was a whisper, like a secret shared in hushed voices between best friends. And instead of pushing it away, I leaned in, letting it wrap around me like a scarf I’d forgotten I loved.
” And though I can’t recall your face,
I still got love for you “
Seven,Taylor Swift
There’s something about growing up that makes sadness a constant guest. It’s the slow unraveling of who you were—the kid who believed promises lasted forever, who thought the people one loved would always stick around. It’s the scent of your childhood home wafting through a stranger’s kitchen, or the echo of laughter from a friend you haven’t spoken to in years.
I can still smell the petrichor from those endless July days, hear the hum of cicadas as we sprawled on the grass, plotting futures that felt so certain. Now, those memories sit beside me like ghosts, their edges softened by time. Nostalgia weaves through the ache, a golden thread in a tapestry of loss, reminding me of what was and what won’t be again. And yet, that pang doesn’t hurt the way it used to—it comforts me, proof that those moments mattered.
” I hit my peak at seven feet
In the swing
Over the creek
I was too scared to jump in
But I, I was high in the sky “
Seven, Taylor Swift
Why do we cling to this feeling? Why do we chase it in the songs that make our eyes sting or the stories that leave us hollowed out but whole? I think it’s because sadness tells the truth. Joy can feel like a guest who never stays long enough to unpack—fickle, bright, fleeting, gone before you can get a hold of it. But sadness lingers. It sits with you through the long nights, tracing the lines of your life with a steady hand. It’s a guest that overstays its welcome until you stop fighting it and start setting a plate for it at the table. Over time, it becomes less about the loss itself and more about what it leaves behind: a quiet strength, a deeper understanding of yourself.
Grief, I’ve come to realize, is a kind of love that has lost its way. It’s all the words you didn’t say, the hugs you didn’t give, and the time you thought you’d have forever. It’s there in the way I still hum a tune my friend taught me before she left for college, or how I pause at the sight of a flower stall because it reminds me of my mom’s garden.
There’s a scene in Fleabag—you know the one—where she’s sitting alone, breaking the fourth wall with that half-smile that hides a scream. Phoebe Waller-Bridge gets it: sadness isn’t just pain; it’s a lens, a way of seeing the world that’s raw and real and oddly beautiful.
” Either everyone feels like this just a little bit and they’re not talking about it, or I am completely f*****g alone.”
Fleabag
Growing up is a collection of endings—friendships that slip through your fingers, dreams that shift shapes, places you can’t return to. But sadness stitches it all together, a thread that runs through every chapter. It’s the twinge I feel when I pass the café where we used to share fries and our deepest fears, the heaviness of a birthday that doesn’t feel the same without them. It’s the weight of knowing I can’t go back, can’t rewrite the choices that brought me here. And yet, in that weight, there’s solace. A reminder that I felt something real, that I was part of something bigger than myself, even if it didn’t last.
Maybe that’s why we embrace melancholia—because it’s ours. It’s the shadow that knows us best, the one that doesn’t demand we smile or pretend. I’ve spent nights curled up with a book that breaks my heart, or a movie that leaves me staring at the ceiling, and I’ve felt more alive in those moments than in a hundred sunny days. Over time I’ve learned that sadness isn’t the enemy; it’s the friend who stays when everyone else leaves—the one who waits for you to tie your shoelaces when they cone undone or finish your food when you’re the only one left at the table, while everyone else carries on. And as I move through this messy, beautiful life—older, wiser, a little more bruised—I find myself grateful, holding it close, I embrace this sadness and nurture it, thankful for its bittersweet ache that keeps me tethered to who I am.