Usually, I’m a smartass. My Nana used to call me a “smarty-pants,” and I’ve been labeled a wiseacre more times than I can count. Sarcasm is kind of my love language. But tonight? Yeah, no. None of that’s landing.

Tonight I feel grief. Sadness. Shame. Frustration. Impatience. I want instant gratification and answers and maybe a damn miracle, and instead I’m just sitting here with my feelings, which—spoiler alert—I didn’t ask for.

Grief gets talked about like it’s reserved for death. Like someone has to die for you to fall apart. But that’s not true. I’m grieving a whole buffet of things, and most of them are still walking around, living their lives, just not with me.

Of course, I miss my parents. They’re gone. They’re not coming back. But the real gut punch? I miss my kid. And he’s very much alive. We’ve been estranged for a while now. It’s complicated. It’s painful. And honestly, I don’t know if we’ll ever find our way back to each other.

I love him so much it makes my chest hurt. I’ve gone through every stage of grief more than once—sometimes all in the same day. I wish I could rewrite the past, undo the stupid choices and heated words and all the missed chances. But I can’t. So I just keep putting love into the universe like a fool with a broken radio, hoping maybe—someday—he’ll hear it. That he’ll forgive me, come home in whatever way that looks like, and let me love him again. Because I still do. I never stopped.

I’m also grieving a couple of friendships. I don’t think there was a big dramatic falling out—no soap opera finale, just a slow fade. Everyone’s busy, and I guess I just slipped off their radar. They’re the type that forget you exist if you’re not in front of them. And hey, I know the world doesn’t revolve around me, but it’d be nice if someone checked to see if I was still spinning. I miss their dumb jokes, their advice, their voices. I miss feeling like I mattered.

And I’m not done yet. I told you I’ve got a list.

Let’s talk about my body. I’m 62 and I hate it. I’ve tried the whole body positivity thing, and good for the people who find peace there. But me? Nope. I don’t feel empowered. I feel tired and heavy and angry.

I miss my size 8 body. I miss walking without wheezing. I miss stamina. I miss feeling like I could just go. And the kicker? I did this to myself. No one forced me to eat the Sara Lee cheesecake, or the extra slice of pizza, or the mashed potatoes and Parker House rolls. No one handcuffed me to a plate of Alfredo-soaked pasta. I did that. I made those choices. And now I’m living in a body that feels like a betrayal.

I’ve had a messed-up relationship with food since forever. I’m a compulsive overeater. I’ve improved, sure—I don’t binge anymore. But I still make crap choices. I feel stuck. And I grieve that. I grieve the body I used to have and the one I never gave myself the chance to have.

And yes, this is turning into a bit of a pity party, but whatever—I brought snacks.

I’m also grieving time. Because let’s be real: I’ve been telling myself for decades that I’d lose the weight. “By 30,” I said. “You gotta lose it before 30.” Then it was 40. Then 45. Then menopause showed up like an uninvited houseguest, and I said, “Okay, 60. That’s the number.”

Now I’m 62. With white hair and crepey skin and the same goddamn weight I’ve been dragging around since my twenties. I look in the mirror, and I don’t recognize myself—but I do recognize all the broken promises I made to myself.

I miss my old body. I used to be strong—like, throw a grown man over my shoulder strong. And now?

And you know what else I miss? Taking a regular ol’ crap, too. Yeah. I said it. I miss sitting down with a book or a magazine and pooping like a normal human being. Because I don’t do that anymore. I have a permanent colostomy, and my poop goes in a bag. Every day I get a fun little reminder that I’m not “normal.” Yay.

I miss simpler times. I miss the music, the people, the mindset of the ’70s and ’80s. Back when the world felt big but not terrifying. Back when I wasn’t waking up every day with a pit in my stomach, wondering what new hellscape will pop up in the news or in my personal life.

I miss being able to move without pain. I miss chasing my kid around. I miss carrying all the groceries in one trip. I miss standing in line at Disneyland and knowing my feet wouldn’t betray me halfway through the day.

So yeah—I’m grieving. And it’s not just death or distance or lost time. I’m grieving the versions of me I let slip away. The versions I didn’t nurture. The ones I ignored because I was too busy taking care of everyone else.

I want peace. I want health. I want strength. I don’t care if I look like a wrinkly bulldog as long as I can move without wincing.

I know I’m in the second half of my life now. If I’m lucky, I’ve got 30 years left. And I want to make those years count. Not perfect, not Instagram-worthy—just mine.

It’s not the aging I’m mourning—it’s the way I burned through my youth without appreciating it. I wish I’d slowed down. I wish I’d touched grass. I wish I’d said “no” more and taken more naps and eaten fewer feelings.

That’s the grief, right there. That’s what I’m sitting in tonight.

So how about you? What are you grieving? How do you carry it?