I was talking to a friend earlier about detachment, and it made me think about how there are moments in life when you just wish that time would stop. Even for a day. Just long enough for your mind to catch up to what your heart is holding. But life isn’t really designed that way. Sometimes you’re still grieving, still processing, still trying to feel safe inside your own body — and the world keeps moving. Deadlines and schedules still exist. You still have to show up. And that’s where detachment started to make sense in a different way, I think. People think detachment means shutting down or distancing yourself from the pain so you can function. For me, it’s the opposite. It’s acknowledging the weight while you keep moving. Feeling the grief without letting it swallow the entire day. Letting the questions exist even when the answers aren’t ready. Healing while surviving isn’t glamorous. It’s this messy, unphotogenic work. It’s the kind no one sees. But it’s also the kind that teaches you the truth: detachment isn’t escape. It’s the small, honest space you create so you can breathe, carry what you must, and still make it through one more day.