Tom Bender of the “Heroes in Grief” recently interviewed me for his podcast.

You know why these conversations matter? They remind us to lead, love, and live with compassion—for ourselves and for others navigating silent stories.

We had an honest and raw chat about grief. How holidays amplify everything: the excitement, the nostalgia, the gratitude…and yes, the grief. For so many people, this time of year is a beautiful mix of light and shadow. Moments of celebration sit right next to moments of longing. And that’s human.

But what really stood out to me was when Tom said, “I don’t care.” I don’t mean to paraphrase what he said or explain the meaning of “I don’t care” on his behalf. But I will say that’s how I have been feeling in the past few months.

“I don’t care.”

People hear those words and assume apathy and coldness. But for me, they became a lifeline.

A boundary.
An anchor.
A reclamation.

When my father died unexpectedly, I found myself grieving not just him, but the people who quietly walked away. People who were in and out of our lives a few times a week. People for whom my father had dropped off home cooked meals during COVID-19. Folks for whom I had provided emotional safety during their hard times. Their absence left a bruise that shifted shape—anger one day, aching loneliness the next. I was shocked by how effortlessly some treated adult orphans, as if our loss absolved them of showing up, as if they could wipe their hands clean of our grief.

But as I continued to work on my healing and connecting with a community of grievers, I found three words that rewired my nervous system and rebuilt my life. These three words that would have horrified the younger version of me, the girl who believed that love was proven through overextension, emotional acrobatics, familial peacekeeping, and people-pleasing.

I am more empathetic than ever, far kinder, and infinitely more patient. But I’m no longer porous. After losing my dad, one of my greatest anchors, I realized something quietly devastating: I no longer had the bandwidth to care about everyone and everything. With him gone, I had nowhere to turn to when I felt depleted or needed proactive nourishment. There is no parental home to return to, no older voice to call when something beautiful or terrible happens. I’m suddenly the grown-up, without rehearsal, whether I was ready or not.

I don’t bleed for every wound around me. I can offer advice and hold space, but I don’t rush toward every fire. People can no longer use me as a trash can for their emotional vomit or life situation. Grief narrowed my attention to what is real, meaningful, and worth my energy.

I live life without fears but with a sense of urgency. I am aware that not everyone gets to grow old—both my parents died suddenly and before their time. Whatever we want to do and whoever we want to be…it’s in this lifetime. None of us know how much time we have left.

I do my thing.

I love fiercely where love is reciprocated.
I wish no one harm.

I care deeply where it matters.
I show up wholeheartedly where my presence is valued.

But I don’t attach myself to most people anymore.

Grief stripped me of the illusion that I could save everyone, hold everyone, understand everyone. People on anxiety meds mixing alcohol; loud WhatsApp groups where everyone walks on eggshells but chooses to contribute; women complaining about their cheating and abusive husbands yet choosing money and luxury over self-respect; family sharing their drama of who-did-what yet hitting likes on socials and hosting each other over weekends. I don’t care. I keep a healthy distance.

My grief showed me that not everyone is worth my love, honesty, or energy—and that discerning where I pour myself is not selfish. It’s sacred.

“I don’t care” became my shield against emotional obligation. I continue to have a close network of cousins and friends. I celebrate life and moments with my loved ones privately. But I don’t feel the guilt or desire to stay connected to everyone. I don’t care if they wish me on my birthday or anniversary. I don’t care if they don’t check in.

These three words have helped me survive rooms where people casually ask, “Traveling to see your family?” or gave advice that I didn’t ask for, “You must see the family pictures on WhatsApp group” or “Be the bigger person.” It’s protected me from people who meant well but couldn’t fathom the kind of grief that rearranges your bones. It gave me permission to step away from conversations that drained me, expectations that suffocated me, and relationships that required too much of a heart that was already shattered.

Losing my dad meant losing my recharge-space in this world—the one person who understood my pauses, my silences, my fierce independence, and my softness in the same breath.

Without him, I had to build a new kind of refuge.
And it began with three words that felt radical and freeing: “I don’t care.”

Not because I’m cold or numb—grief has made me warmer, more compassionate, more attuned to human fragility. But because I finally understand the cost of caring indiscriminately. And I know that my energy is not a communal resource.

So yes, I am grateful that I don’t care—not in the dismissive sense, but in the liberating one.

I wish people well.
Truly.
Sincerely.

But I walk away.

I don’t care.
And that’s exactly how I learned to live again.

Because when you’ve held your father’s hand for the last time, you learn that life is far too short to waste on connections that dim your light.

~