What do I do when grief comes in waves and I thought I was doing better?

Grief doesn't follow a line upward. It moves in cycles—sometimes predictable (their birthday, an anniversary), sometimes completely ambushed by a song or a smell or an empty chair at dinner. You'll think you're past the worst of it, then something small will crack you open again. Mirabai's poetry is full of this rupture—moments of ecstatic devotion followed by anguish at absence. She didn't try to smooth it out into one consistent feeling. She let herself be destroyed and rebuilt, over and over. The waves aren't a sign you're failing at grief. They're a sign the person actually mattered. Your nervous system is slowly learning to hold their absence without it destabilizing everything. What helps: expect the waves. Know that grief is nonlinear. Plan something grounding for the hard anniversaries, but also be gentle with yourself on random Tuesdays when you suddenly feel hollow. Talk to them. Write to them. Let yourself be messy about it. The examined heart—the one Mirabai kept returning to—is the one that feels all of this, doesn't edit itself, and doesn't apologize for taking its time. You're not broken. You're grieving someone who mattered. That's exactly how it should feel.