Jk, Idk How to Grieve: The Flop of Quiet Grief
Note: This piece reflects on the quiet grief of witnessing decline—not death. It’s a continuation of themes from Dressing Through the Grief.
When Cory Monteith died,
I was working for this media company, et when news of the Van City king’s untimely passing hit the streets of our open desk space, my colleague said, very matter-of-factly, that she just didn’t trust Lea Michele. Because who goes out clubbing “immediately after” finding out their boyfriend died? We’ve all since grown up enough to know the polite refrain: “we all grieve differently.”
In quotes because that’s all I keep hearing lately.
“We all grieve differently.”
“Grief looks different on everyone.”
“Grief isn’t one size fits all.”
“Grief has many siblings, et none of them twins.”
Okay, I made up the last two, but at least it’s original. If only people started diversifying when delivering this message.
Here’s the thing: I thought grief would be cinematic. The kind of pain that locks you in your room with a leather bound diary, waiting for the Pulitzer committee to come collect your tears. I thought I’d finally get my Confessions album. But instead…I mostly feel…bored. The grief is uninteresting. Anticlimactic.
I’ve tried to style it away (á la Solange’s steps: drink, dance, shop, et sex), but nothing made it feel the way it was supposed to. The looks didn’t absorb the ache. The moves didn’t release the weight. The distractions didn’t reframe it.
Of all the things people warned me grief would be, no one said it would be this...flat. That it might feel like sitting in a room with only one guest, her voice echoing back to herself. No drama, no crescendo, no big Virginia Woolf moment—just an emotion taking up space (without paying rent at that!)
Maybe it’s a side effect of a culture that’s taught us to perform emotion. From Lea Michele’s nightclub optics to my own urge to write my way into a tragic heroine arc, I’ve been waiting for grief to push herself into the middle of the circle, et start throwing it to a chorus of “ayeeeees.” But she’s bored et babysitting two or three shots by the bar instead.
Et in a sad but still true way, I can find some positivity in that. Because at least, while grief sits in my chest, waiting for me to notice, it’s manageable. Glam is still served, deadlines are still met, love is still given. It’s not the look I imagined, but still wearable.
