The Quiet Between Paragraphs: Finding My Way Back to Words After Grief

Finding My Way Back to Words After Grief | By Amy Roullier.

After losing my grandad in February, for the first time in five years, I lost the urge to write.

You’d think, as a chronic oversharer, I’d have spilled every feeling onto the page. That I’d voice the pain through late-night notes and cathartic paragraphs of heartache. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to feel my feelings. Not on paper, not anywhere.

My ever-whirring mind, usually brimming with thoughts, article ideas, and conversations I wanted to have with the world, fell quiet. And oddly, I was okay with the silence. I didn’t fight it. Because no combination of words could change what had happened. They couldn’t bring him back.

He’s still gone. We’re all still grieving. And time has inched forward, slow and heavy.

The well-meaning words of others haven’t brought much comfort, so I didn’t see how my own could, either. A dear friend sent me Loss by Donna Ashworth—a thoughtful gesture. But I haven’t been able to open it. It’s been three months. The book sits on my shelf, untouched, collecting dust.

And yet, a few weeks ago, I ordered a diary.

I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe turning 40 has something to do with it. Maybe a part of me wants to capture what’s left of my youth, even if only in scribbled thoughts and half-finished sentences. It arrived this week. And on a quiet Sunday afternoon, without overthinking it, I opened it and wrote.

It’s funny. I’ve spent the last five years writing publicly—sharing deeply, often too much—but this was the first time I wrote with no intention of anyone else ever reading it. Maybe that’s how I should’ve began. But I’ve always been the kind of person who hits “publish” and then starts editing.

And something about that quiet entry stirred something in me.

My grandad spent most of his life working for the British Library in London. He was part of the Oriental Conservation Studio, carefully restoring old book spines, preserving treasured stories. Books were his life’s work. He didn’t have a degree or formal training—just grit, kindness, and a fierce work ethic that carried him into a senior position.

He loved to read. Always had a book on the go. So did my Nan. My parents. My uncle. And now, me and my sisters. Saturdays meant trips to the local library, stacking up new reads. (Worryingly, I was obsessed with Stephen King and Dean Koontz by age ten—though I balanced out the horror literature with a love for Terry Pratchett.)

Becoming a writer wasn’t some spontaneous mid-life idea, it’s been my obsession since childhood.

From late-night stories scrawled in notebooks, to cringe-worthy TV scripts I forced my friends to read, to an embarrassing first attempt at a non-fiction novel that swallowed most of my twenties. Then came the blog I started during the pandemic, the book I self-published, and the book I’ve finished but still can’t bring myself to release.

All of it is proof: I’m serious about writing. It’s not a phase. Not a flirtation. It’s an urge, a calling. A need. I must write.

Even in pause, I hoped I’d return. I hoped I’d find my way back to words.

And that diary entry? It signalled something I hadn’t felt in months—that words are starting to mean something again.

Because my grandad spent his life caring for books.

Because authors—known and unknown—have undone and rebuilt me over and over.

And because writing has always been how I make sense of the world, of myself.

So here I am, writing this piece, hovering over the “publish” button. Feeling, for the first time in a long while, the joy of sharing again.

And maybe that’s a sign. That I’m one step closer to finding my way back to the words, after grief.