There are cries… and then there are ugly cries.

I’m not talking about a few tears slipping down your cheek during a sad commercial or a quiet weep you can still hide behind sunglasses. I’m talking about the kind of cry that steals your breath, swells in your chest like a storm, and knocks you to your knees—literally. The kind that leaves you on the bathroom floor, curled up like a child, because standing upright feels impossible under the weight of what you carry.

Grief isn’t polite. It doesn’t care about timing or location. It doesn’t wait until you’re alone or until you’ve had enough sleep or until you’re done with your work meeting. It builds—quietly, slowly—until one day it screams through your body, forcing its way out like a dam breaking.

Sometimes there’s a trigger. A voicemail. A memory. A silence that lasts too long. Other times, it comes without warning, like a thief in the night stealing every ounce of composure you worked so hard to maintain.

People don’t talk enough about those cries. The ones that don’t look like strength or grace. The ones where snot and mascara mix. Where fists pound the carpet. Where you whisper, or scream, “I can’t do this,” even though you know tomorrow you will.

Because that’s the thing: the ugly cry doesn’t mean weakness. It means release. It means the pain is real and you’re still alive enough to feel it.

I’ve had more of those cries than I’d care to count. After hospital calls. After suicide attempts. After pretending to be “okay” for too long. They’re not pretty. But they are honest. And in a world that often demands composure, honesty is a kind of rebellion.

If you’ve cried like that, you’re not alone. You’re not broken beyond repair. You’re grieving. You’re surviving. You’re human.

And sometimes, the floor is the safest place to fall when everything else feels like it’s crumbling.