Day 216: Obituary for Emotional Detachment
This is not an obituary for a person—it’s for a part of ourselves we once relied on to stay numb.
Emotional Detachment died quietly in the kitchen on the morning of August 1, 2025. It was 37 years old and, by all accounts, had served its host faithfully for years.
For most of their life, Detachment was praised for its composure. It kept its voice low and its presence invisible. It was known for its ability to help its host smile through breaking news, nod in meetings while grieving silently, and keep scrolling past injustice without letting it land.
It was, as friends often said, "high-functioning in times of collapse."
Biography of the Deceased
Detachment was born in adolescence, during an age of nonstop media saturation and soft cynicism. It was raised on breakfast news shows and late-night satire, trained by college seminars in global trauma and the first jolts of personal disappointment. It came of age in group chats, learned diplomacy in professional settings, and perfected the skill of compartmentalization through unrelenting waves of crisis. It spoke in calm rationalizations: It’s too much. Stay focused. Don’t let this ruin your day.
Its hobbies included:
Minimizing emotional disruption
Muting Instagram stories that felt too raw
Skimming investigative journalism while folding laundry
Its service record includes:
Holding space for others while carrying invisible loss
Smiling politely during a heated board meeting
Reading climate reports without trembling
Detachment was steady. Dependable. It earned its place. And yet, it is now gone.
Cause of Death
Public Trust died quietly on August 1, 2025, not with an explosion, but with a faint, bone-deep exhale; the kind that escapes when the body realizes it’s been holding tension for far too long.
Its final hours were marked by a string of headlines:
In El Salvador, lawmakers eliminated presidential term limits and runoff elections, legally clearing the way for one man to rule indefinitely. (AP News)
In Myanmar, the military junta ended its state of emergency—not to return power, but to stage elections many believe are a democratic performance with preordained winners. (The Times)
In the United States, the Department of Justice reversed protections for journalists, once again allowing the seizure of media records during leak investigations. (Reuters)
They read them all over coffee. And though none directly affected them, they all did. It wasn’t one event; it was the pattern. Power expanding without oversight. Truth cornered. Democracy dressed in camouflage. This time, Detachment failed. They cried not for one country, but for the illusion that law alone could protect the soul of freedom.
What remained was silence. And a candle they lit without knowing why.
The Mourner
They had relied on Emotional Detachment for years. It helped them function in a world that demanded productivity no matter the pain. They remembered watching the 2020s unfold like a slow-motion implosion; each year announcing a new fracture. Wildfires, shootings, Supreme Court reversals, surveillance leaks. Some days they wept in private. Other days they laughed at memes that made grief palatable. Mostly, they kept moving.
But on this day, something shifted.
The news wasn’t the most horrific they’d ever read. There was no breaking alert, no screaming urgency. Just three stories, buried a few scrolls down, halfway through their coffee. And yet, they cried. Not performatively. Not publicly. Alone, in their kitchen, as their dog looked on with quiet curiosity.
The tears were soft at first. Then ragged. They gripped the counter not because they were dramatic, but because they were overwhelmed by the weight of everything. For once, they didn’t try to push it down. They let themself fall apart, if only for five minutes. It was, in the truest sense, a death in the family.
Legacy
Emotional Detachment is survived by:
Compassion, who is exhausted but still showing up
Grief, who arrives uninvited and lingers past curfew
Rage, who remains pacing in the hallway, waiting to be let in
A flickering candle that meant nothing and everything
And a quiet vow: “I won’t look away next time.”
In its absence, what has risen is a strange new clarity. They no longer want to pretend their heartbreak is unprofessional. They no longer wish to separate their empathy from their intellect. They no longer need to justify why something across the world made them cry into their morning cup. They don’t want numbness. They want to feel what is true, even when it hurts.
Burial
There will be no official service. No state-sanctioned recognition of its passing. No hashtags. No trending topics.
Emotional Detachment will be buried:
In the silence between headlines
In the inbox marked "unread"
In the eyes of every person who dares to care without a plan
No flowers, please. But light a candle if you must. Write a letter if it helps. Or simply take a breath, and let yourself admit: You felt it too.
Final Thoughts
There’s a part of us that dies when we can no longer pretend things will fix themselves. That part is often mistaken for strength, but it’s closer to surrender. And when that part dies, something else can begin. To cry over the news is not weakness. It’s an act of resistance. A reclamation of emotional truth in a world gaslit by apathy. The goal isn’t to drown in sorrow but to feel it fully, so we don’t drown others in our avoidance.
So yes, they cried over the news. Not because it made them fragile. But because they’re finally strong enough not to look away.
If this post touched something you haven’t let yourself feel, share it. Or sit with it. Or just breathe. You don’t have to perform your pain. You only have to honor it.
#LucivaraGrief #ThePurposeOfTears #ModernMourning #EmotionalIntelligence #ObituaryForDetachment #WeStillFeel #LucivaraTruth
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