About Love, Guilt, and Doors Left Open Too Long
There are moments when grief knocks again — not to wound, but to remind.
Of love that never died, and of the silence that should never stand between people.
As long as there is life, there is still the possibility of meeting.
Read this post in Swedish ->Den där sorgen knackar på igen
When Silence Becomes More Dangerous Than Words
There are times when silence becomes more dangerous than words.
When conflicts lie between us like cold stones.
And one day — when time has passed — forgiveness may no longer help.
Each day we let slip by without reaching out
makes the way back a little longer,
a little heavier to walk.
Last night, I dreamed that I was looking through someone’s hair.
Between the strands, small white larvae were crawling.
Suddenly I realized they were lice — and that I had them too.
I woke up with an uneasy feeling,
as if something was crawling under my skin.
Perhaps it wasn’t only the dream I had dreamt,
but something deeper trying to surface.
When Grief Knocks Again – Listening to What It Wants to Say
At that very moment, grief knocked again.
It lay there like a well-worn rug on the floor.
It has lived inside my body since time immemorial,
and now it had returned — with wisdom that made me wiser, but not finished.
It gnaws, demanding that I see,
and that I ask myself what I can give back.
I try to resist.
But who am I to hold back my tears?
They live beneath my eyelids,
needing to fall.
And even when they hurt,
they hurt less when they’re allowed to flow.
Sometimes I don’t know why that grief knocks again,
but I know it wants something from me —
it wants me to see clearly.
The Grandchildren Are Without Guilt
This is about the grandchildren I’m not allowed to see.
But it’s also about shame — an ancient shame that wasn’t mine,
but that I, as a small child, carried for the adults
who couldn’t carry their own shortcomings.
Today I see it clearly.
Yet I also know there are two small children, not far from here,
who might feel something similar to what I once felt.
In my time it was grandmother, aunt, and father who couldn’t get along.
Today it’s me who stands outside the circle,
and two small children who don’t understand,
don’t know,
and can’t change a thing.
Grandmother and My Dear Aunt
When I stayed with my grandmother, my dear aunt lived just beyond a garden fence.
A rock bed of flowers my grandmother had planted separated our worlds.
Sometimes my cousins came down to their grandmother for a lollipop,
and then I got one too.
Sometimes I crossed the rock bed to visit my aunt.
But with every step, shame crept closer.
I feared grandmother would be sad that I went.
And when I walked back again,
another wave came —
that my aunt might be hurt now instead.
That’s how children are.
They place others’ wrongs on themselves,
without realizing it’s not their fault.
Do They Feel the Same Guilt and Shame?
Now I wonder —
do my grandchildren walk around with that same mix of guilt and shame?
Have they also learned that love should be hidden,
that longing is something you shouldn’t show?
I wonder if the little girl felt guilt
when she accepted the birthday gifts I gave her.
It hurts to think about.
But when grief lives inside you, it forces you to see.
When That Grief Knocks Again in the Stillness
I ask myself:
Should I stop leaving presents at the door?
Should I save the money for a day when they can choose for themselves?
But maybe she needs that little teddy to hold at night.
Maybe she needs those pencils
to create her masterpieces.
Maybe it’s those very pencils
that allow her to stay in the moment,
to think of me and her grandfather
without feeling shame.
Because she owns no shame.
She should never have to choose away love
because adults failed to manage their relationships.
When I was little, guilt was part of love too.
My grandmother and aunt argued constantly.
I loved them both
and tried to hold their worlds together with my small hands.
I was a child trying to be loyal to everyone.
I just wanted peace.
But I carried guilt that was never mine.
Now I see the same pattern again —
not within me,
but in the children.
And it hurts in a way words can hardly describe.
Maybe it’s only my imagination,
but the dream, the feeling, and the grief
wove themselves together in the night
and became words.
The Door
My door has never been closed.
I stood there on my son’s birthday, flowers in hand and heart in my throat.
I left them at their door — they weren’t home.
I have waited.
Hoped.
But no one has knocked.
The cold makes itself known.
It seeps through the cracks, into the body.
How long can one stand there, keeping warmth for others
when fingers have gone stiff?
How open should a door be
when no one wants to come in?
One day, maybe the door will close by itself.
Not because love ended,
but because life did.
Every time I stand there waiting,
it feels as if that grief knocks again,
quietly, almost humbly.
This isn’t written to blame anyone.
It’s written to remind us how easily silence builds walls,
and how hard they are to tear down once time has passed.
Time Is Not Infinite
I know my time here isn’t endless.
Ten, twenty years perhaps.
Or maybe just one more day.
Maybe tomorrow is already the last.
I live close to that thought now.
Not in fear, but in clarity.
When everything falls silent, I hope what I’ve left behind will be enough —
that the words, the tears, and the love in them
will reach where my hands no longer can.
Sometimes I think that grief knocks again only to remind me of life.
Afterthought
We always think we have time.
But time is a poor negotiator.
Every day without a conversation builds a wall,
and one day it stands there —
even when we no longer do.
If you stand there then,
I want you to know:
The guilt isn’t yours.
I carried my sorrow out of love,
and I wish you never have to carry it.
Because love doesn’t become less
just because it didn’t fit within time.
It remains —
in children’s laughter,
in the wind through birches,
in every swim I take,
in everything I tried to leave behind — stillness, warmth, forgiveness.
When you stand there,
lift your gaze to the sky and know:
I have already forgiven.
There’s nothing left to apologize for.
But you can whisper to the children:
“You don’t have to carry our guilt. You’re allowed to live light.”
That’s all I’ve ever wanted —
for love to continue,
even when I no longer stand in the doorway waiting.
Final Words
When I wrote this, tears fell slowly, quietly.
They didn’t come from weakness, but from truth.
Every word carried a piece of what has lived in me for so long.
Now it could finally breathe.
Grief hurts, but it’s also proof of love.
And in the midst of it all, somewhere between heartbeats, there is calm —
a knowing that I’ve done what I could.
Maybe that’s all a person can do in the end —
stand in love, even when no one knocks anymore.
And when silence one day becomes complete,
I’ll know that I tried.
That I loved.
When I wrote this, I felt that grief knock again,
but this time, with a gentler hand.
Dreams and Self-Reflection – When Life Becomes Learning
Self-Compassion in Everyday Life – When the Holiday Spirit Refuses to Arrive
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A Professional but Personal Note
In my training to become a counsellor, I’m learning to listen to what’s not always spoken aloud.
This text reminds me that therapeutic work begins where we dare to meet our own feelings with openness and care.
Then grief stops being a burden – and becomes a teacher in compassion.
A Thought for the Environment
In my effort to live with awareness – not only toward people but also toward nature – I want to give something back.
Every word I write leaves a trace, and I want that trace to be green.
That’s why I support projects that plant trees and restore what we humans have taken.
A tree becomes shade, oxygen, and life – a quiet proof that everything we give, returns in another form.
Plant trees via Vi-skogen (SE):
https://www.viskogen.se/gava/ge-bort-trad/
Yesterday has already settled into history, tomorrow waits farther ahead. But right now – this is where life happens.
— Carina Ikonen Nilsson
