There’s a strange, hollow feeling that comes over you when you walk back into your house after being part of something tragic. It’s disorienting, like stepping into a world that hasn’t caught up to the weight of what just happened. The walls are the same. The furniture sits undisturbed. The coffee mug you left on the counter that morning is still there, waiting.
But you’re not the same.
You carry it with you—the sights, the sounds, the moments that unfolded. You sit down at the dinner table, surrounded by normalcy, and yet you’re holding the memory of someone who isn’t here anymore. Someone who won’t be going home to their loved ones.
It feels wrong, almost selfish, to continue like nothing has changed when you know everything has. Your family chats about their day, the kids ask what’s for dinner, and you try to engage, but part of you is somewhere else. You’re back in that moment, replaying it again and again. Did I do enough? Could I have done something differently?
You try to smile, try to act normal, but the weight inside you is unbearable. And here’s the thing no one tells you—it doesn’t just go away. It lingers. It clings to you in the quiet moments. It follows you into your dreams.
And yet, the world expects you to keep going. To go to work, to run errands, to laugh at jokes, and pretend everything is fine. But it’s not fine. You’re not fine.
You wrestle with questions you can’t answer, trying to make sense of something senseless. And all the while, you look around at the people you love, grateful they’re still here, but terrified by the fragility of it all.
Going home after something like that isn’t really going home at all. It’s stepping back into a world that feels too light for the heaviness you now carry. But somehow, you keep moving. You keep breathing. And eventually, you start to figure out how to live with the weight, even if it never truly leaves.
