Grief Made Me Self-Protective

And I’m Still Learning to Let People In

Losing someone you love doesn’t just break your heart — it rearranges it. 
And if I’m honest, grief didn’t just make me sad.
It made me guarded.

It made me hold back.
From people.
From moments.
From joy I didn’t trust would last.

I don’t think I realized it at first.
It started quietly — the way trauma usually does.
I’d flinch inward when things felt too good.
I’d keep conversations surface-level.
I’d find myself pulling away from people who got too close, too fast.

Not because I didn’t want connection.
But because I did.
So much.
And connection meant risk.
Risk meant loss.
And I already knew what it felt like to lose someone I never thought I’d lose.

After my mom died, something in me hardened — not in a bitter way, just in a protective one.
Like my heart went into lockdown.
I started believing that nothing was permanent.
That even the most beautiful people could be gone in an instant.
And I carried that belief into every room I walked into.

Grief taught me how to love someone with my whole being.
But losing her?
That taught me how to protect what was left of me.

Sometimes I wonder if it made me harder to love.
Not because I’m cold or distant — I’m not.
But because I needed people to prove they’d stay before I’d offer all of me.
Because I built walls where I used to have windows.
Because I started confusing intimacy with inevitability — if you love someone, you’ll lose them.
So maybe if I love a little less, I’ll lose a little less too.

That kind of logic doesn’t live in the brain.
It lives in the body.
In the muscle memory of mourning.
In the subconscious reflex that tells you to brace for the goodbye even before the hello is fully spoken.

It’s been years.
And I’m still learning how to let people all the way in.
Still unlearning the lie that loss makes love not worth it.
Still reminding myself that yes, everything ends — but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth beginning.

Grief made me cautious.
But it also made me deep.
Made me tender.
Made me someone who sees what matters faster than most.

I don’t love lightly anymore.
But when I do —
I love with my whole, scarred, steady heart.
And maybe that’s not something to hide.
Maybe that’s the gift.

If grief has made you cautious too, you’re not alone.
Maybe you’ve been showing up halfway — not because you don’t care, but because you care so much you can barely hold it.
Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that holding back is safer than being held.
I get it.
I’ve been there.

But I hope, slowly, gently, you find people who feel safe enough to inch the door open again.
People who don’t rush your healing.
People who stay.
You don’t have to throw the doors wide.
But maybe — just maybe — crack the window.
Let a little light in.

Until next time,

D