Afam

Grief is strange. It hits you in waves when you get the least expect it at 3 a.m. when the world is asleep, or in the middle of the day when you’re just trying to get some work done. For me, it comes when I pick up my camera. Every shot I take reminds me of him. His laughter echoes in the quiet spaces between the clicks of the shutter. It’s been months since I lost him, but the hole he left feels as raw as the day he was gone.

I never thought I’d have to explain what it’s like to lose someone you love, especially someone who made your world brighter. When my boyfriend passed away, everything around me felt like it dimmed. Friends reached out; people offered their condolences, but public sympathy is a funny thing it’s there when you need it the least, and nowhere to be found when you’re silently screaming for help. It’s almost like there’s an expiration date on how long you’re allowed to grieve before the world each other and expects you to move on. But how do you move on when everything reminds you of him?

I’m Afam, a photographer who’s supposed to capture life in all its beauty, but lately, it feels like I’m living in a blur. The grief and depression are suffocating some days. I wake up, and the weight of it all presses down on me before I even get out of bed. I scroll through old pictures of him and us, it’s like staring at moments I can never touch again. But the world keeps turning, doesn’t it? No one has time for grief when there are deadlines and photoshoots to meet.

The irony is that I love my job. Photography has always been my escape, my solace. It’s where I find clarity and peace. But now, every image feels incomplete, like a puzzle missing its final piece. I see beauty through my lens, but there’s a sadness that lingers behind every frame. I wonder if others can see it, too, or if I’ve gotten good at hiding it behind the perfectly curated shots.

Public sympathy has been a mixed bag. Some people genuinely care, others are just… nosy. “How are you holding up?” they ask, and I know they don’t really want the truth. They expect a brave smile, a “taking it one day at a time” kind of answer. But the truth is, some days I’m not holding up at all. Some days I just want to curl up in bed and let the world go on without me. It’s hard when people think that because time has passed, the pain has, too.

I try not to show how deep the depression runs. It’s not easy being the person who lost someone, especially when people don’t know how to respond. They avoided certain topics, and spoke in hushed tones, like they are afraid one wrong word will send me spiraling. What they don’t understand is that I’m already spiraling. I’ve been spiraling since the moment I realized I’d never hear his voice again or feel his touch, or see his smile.

But despite it all, I keep going. My camera is still my lifeline. I don’t know if it’s hope or stubbornness, but I refuse to let go of the one thing that connects me to the world, even if it’s through a haze of pain. Every photoshoot, every frame, is a step towards healing slow, painful steps, but steps nonetheless. Some days, I shoot because it’s the only thing I know how to do. Other days, it’s because it’s the one thing that reminds me there’s still beauty in the world, even if I can’t always see it.

I’m learning to navigate the sympathy, the judgment, the depression. It’s not easy, and I don’t have it all figured out, but I’m trying. And maybe that’s all I can do for now keep trying, keep shooting, and hope that one day, the pictures I take won’t just be a distraction from the pain, but a celebration of the life I’m still learning how to live without him.