How do I know if I'm grieving normally or if something is wrong with me?

I've learned that grief isn't a linear climb—it's more like weather. Some days it's heavy rain, some days it's just the smell of wet earth. What matters is whether you're moving, not how fast. There's no "should" in grief. You might cry immediately or weeks later. You might laugh at a memory and then feel guilty—that's human, not broken. What I watch for is whether you can still tend to basic things: eating when hungry, sleeping eventually, letting one person know you're struggling. Grief that isolates you completely, that makes you unable to get out of bed for months, or that turns into thoughts of harming yourself—those are signals to reach out to someone trained. But the rawness? The replaying of moments? Missing them so much it physically hurts? That's not wrong. That's what happens when someone mattered. Your grief is proof of love. What you're experiencing is real and deserves space, not judgment. Pay attention to whether you're slowly—very slowly—finding moments where the weight feels slightly lighter. That's enough.