The Days I Chose to Stay

#03 On carrying grief, and still deciding to live

Disclaimer: This is a long read , something you’d probably read at 2AM while replaying the same song over and over, trying to make sense of feelings that don’t really have a clear shape.

Chapters:

• Chapter 1 — The Pause I Didn’t Plan
• Chapter 2 — When Everything Got Too Loud
• Chapter 3 — Learning to Stay

If you want to feel it deeper, you can play this in the background while reading. Membasuh by Hindia.

Chapter 1: The Pause I Didn’t Plan

It’s been almost three years, but grief doesn’t really fade the way people say it does, it just changes form. Sometimes it comes back in the middle of the night, when I wake up with my heart racing, like my body still hasn’t fully accepted one simple fact: my best friend is gone.

And in that split second between being asleep and fully awake, there’s always this quiet hope that maybe it was all a mistake, maybe nothing actually changed — but reality settles in fast, heavy and familiar, and what follows isn’t always tears, but a kind of emptiness that just sits there, right in my chest.

After the funeral in Klaten in November 2023, I went back to Jakarta and everything felt… normal. Too normal. People kept moving, talking, laughing, arguing about the presidential election in group chats like nothing had happened. But for me, everything felt paused. Like my life got stuck in one moment while the rest of the world kept going without me.

What I missed the most weren’t the just big memories, but the small ones — the random late-night calls, hanging out in front of Indomaret with cheap canned drinks, talking about a future that now feels impossible.

And that’s when I realized something, losing someone doesn’t always break you loudly. Sometimes it just quietly takes away your ability to focus, to feel present, to function like you used to.

At that time, I was in my final year of college. My thesis was supposed to be my priority. But every time I opened my laptop, my mind went somewhere else. I told myself I was just sad. That this was normal. That I’d get over it.

But the hard truth is, I didn’t.

Chapter 2: When Everything Got Too Loud

The breaking point didn’t come in a dramatic way, it happened during a family gathering, surrounded by normal conversations and the sound of plates and cutlery, when suddenly everything I had been holding in just spilled out.

No warning. No control. And that moment led me to a psychiatrist.

I went the next day with my mom, told my story in pieces, and left with medication and a bill that felt just as heavy as everything else I was carrying.

The meds worked, technically. They made me calm. But it wasn’t the kind of calm I expected. It felt empty. Like someone turned down the volume on everything — sadness, yes, but also everything else.

I felt slowly, disconnected, not fully myself. And instead of feeling better, I felt frustrated. Because how was I supposed to heal if I didn’t even feel like me anymore?

That’s when things started getting darker.

Three months after the funeral, I moved back into Semarang, thinking being around friends would help. But instead, the grief grew heavier. It wasn’t just sadness anymore , it was something that followed me everywhere, something that replayed in my head like a broken cassette that wouldn’t stop. No pause. No silence.

And then came thoughts I never thought I’d have. The kind that scare you even as they cross your mind.

One afternoon, with whatever clarity I had left, I asked for help.

I remember knocking on my friend’s door, crying, unable to even explain properly what I was feeling except that it was too much. And that moment didn’t fix everything, but it changed something important.

I stopped being alone in it.

That’s when I was introduced to a different kind of help. Not medication first, but conversation. Understanding. Slowly unpacking what I was actually feeling.

And for the first time in a while, there was a small shift.

Not relief. But direction.

Chapter 3: Learning to Stay

For me, healing didn’t happen overnight.

It didn’t even happen in a straight line. But it started with small things like, reaching out to friends, asking questions, preparing myself before sessions, trying to understand what was happening inside my own head instead of running from it.

I remember one sentence that stayed with me: try every possible way out — don’t stop at one door.

So I didn’t.

When I finally sat down with a counselor, I came prepared. And when she said, “this is already an illness, stop denying it so you can heal,” I didn’t know how to feel at first. Part of me was scared. But another part felt… relieved. Because finally, what I was going through had a name.

And somehow, that made it easier to face.

The steps that followed were small. Almost insignificant. Going outside. Walking. Sitting alone in places filled with memories. Letting myself feel everything instead of pretending I was okay.

Some days, even getting out of bed felt like lifting something heavy. But I tried anyway.

And slowly — really slowly — things started to shift.

I learned how to recognize my own thoughts. To separate what was real from what depression was telling me. To ask for help instead of staying silent. And most importantly, I realized that healing isn’t something you do alone.

It’s built from people who stay. From conversations that come at the right time. From small acts of care. And from a version of yourself that, even when everything feels unstable, still chooses to keep going.

Now, looking back, I don’t think I “moved on.”

I think I just learned how to carry it.

And if there’s one thing I know now, it’s this: even at your lowest point, when everything feels unclear, heavy, and endless. Choosing to stay, just one more day, is already a form of strength.

Because I’ve been there.

And if I made it out, slowly, imperfectly — maybe you can too.

Together with those who stayed through the darkest days (Source: author’s documentation)

This photo was taken on my graduation day, a moment that should have felt complete — but instead, it felt layered, filled with both gratitude and something quietly missing. Around me are the some people who stayed, the ones who walked beside me through every laugh, every breakdown, every uncertain step during the hardest year of my life.

They didn’t fix everything, but they made it bearable. They reminded me, in ways both big and small, that I didn’t have to go through it alone.

Ps: And if you look closely, there’s a space, an intentional emptiness. That space is for my best friend. Gone too soon, but never gone from me. I carry you in every milestone, every quiet moment, every version of myself that kept going. I miss you, always. I love you, every single day.

In loving memory of our best friend Ravi Adonis Ramadhan (2001–2023).