Time, they say, is the great healer. That universal salve that dulls all wounds, mends all fractures. But let me tell you something about time—time is a liar. It doesn’t heal; it doesn’t even try. What it does, if anything, is grind down the edges of your pain, like waves against a jagged cliff. It’s not gone; it’s just less sharp. And sometimes, when the tide rolls out, it leaves behind pieces of you you didn’t know it took.

Losing a parent is like having the foundation of your life ripped out from under you. Suddenly, you're standing on quicksand, pretending the ground is steady. You learn to balance, sure, but that doesn't mean the ground has stopped shifting. Every milestone, every quiet moment when the world isn’t demanding your attention, is a reminder. A phone call you can’t make. A piece of advice you’ll never hear again.

And the worst part? The unsaid is left unsaid. The unknown is left unknown. You can’t go back and ask the questions you never thought to ask. Can’t dig into the stories they never volunteered, the truths they carried with them to the grave. What did they dream about? What kept them awake at night? What secrets did they guard so closely, thinking they’d have more time to tell you? It doesn’t matter how much you knew them or how well you loved them—there’s always more. And now, there’s no one to ask.

If you’re lucky—and I mean lucky—you have fond memories to hold onto. Snapshots of joy, fleeting moments of laughter, little echoes of their presence that soften the edges of the void. But even those memories come with a cost. They remind you of what’s been taken. They whisper of everything you’ll never have again. The sound of their voice, the way they laughed at their own jokes, the little quirks you never paid enough attention to until they were gone.

People mean well. They’ll say, "It gets easier," or "They're always with you." Platitudes dressed up as comfort. But easier isn’t the same as better, and memory isn’t the same as presence. Time doesn’t heal. Time teaches you how to live with the ache—like a limp after a wound that never quite closed. You move forward because you have to, not because you’ve mastered the art of letting go.

I’ve learned this: pain doesn’t fade. It adapts. It burrows in, makes itself comfortable, learns to coexist with your routines. And on some days, it rears its head like a ghost in the room, reminding you it’s always been there.

So, no, time doesn’t heal shit. It just changes the way you carry the burden. And I suppose that’s the cruel joke of it all. You live long enough to realize you’re not meant to get over it. You’re meant to carry it—silently, stoically—until the weight becomes indistinguishable from the rest of you.

The shadow of loss is unyielding, and it grows longer the more you reflect. Every question unanswered, every word unspoken, becomes part of that shadow. You don’t outrun it, and you don’t escape it. But if you’re fortunate, you’ll find slivers of light in the darkness—fond memories, yes, but also the strength to endure. Because when time doesn’t heal, survival becomes its own kind of victory. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.