You have probably heard the saying “grief comes in waves” before, and maybe that’s where the literary connection between grief and the ocean was born. It could just as well be related to the nature of the ocean itself: vastly deep, uncontrollable and drowning, yet also uniquely beautiful and enticing.

Of course, grief involves a complex and shifting set of emotions, with plenty of individual nuance. In this issue, our contributors write candidly about the experiences of those who have suffered loss; they explore the impact of losing particular people—moments, family, memories, things. So wrenchingly honest and visceral are these pieces that, at times, we found it challenging to submerse ourselves in their work. Certainly, this was true for me. Readers, too, may find some moments emotional at times. But our own reactions to these pieces are a signal, perhaps, to examine what makes us uncomfortable and to be less focused on ideas about post-traumatic growth and more on simply sitting with people in their sorrow—for as long as as needed.

But let’s face it: we live in a move-on culture. The media presents us with endless stories of people who face substantial obstacles—job loss, health setbacks, relationship crises—and who nonetheless emerge triumphant, their problems resolved, or at least their attitude retooled. Onward! The notion of the quick fix is comforting, of course. But as we all know, it’s not the norm. Nowhere is this more evident than in the human experience of the juxtaposition of grief and nostalgia, which is the focus of this newest issue of Emerge Literary Journal.

Certainly, nostalgia itself is a paradox like no other—it tinges memories with joy and melancholy all at once. Like reminiscing about playing pretend on the playground, when you could truly be anything you imagined. Or recalling how you’d ride shotgun belting your favorite songs with a friend from whom you’ve since grown apart. I remember the lunch periods I keeled over laughing at an inside joke, the nights I cried over world-ending heartaches that I now tell as party stories. There is no happiness as warm as bursts of nostalgia, no sadness that lingers as long. But what makes the past so sentimental is its novelty: we will never be the people we were in those exact moments again because we are constantly learning, evolving, and using our histories to pave our futures. I hope this issue captures the jubilance, sorrow, and thrill of coming into your own and envisioning all the directions you can grow from here—how grieving is part of our human cycle of growth.

In Issue 28 we learn how we don’t know how to grieve until we grieve. It is a candid exploration of relatable loss. It articulates confusion and sorrow, moments of unexpected peace sparked by memory and nostalgia with an aching honesty and gorgeous language.

I hope the pieces in this issue might be a shield, however brief, against loss, existential isolation, or any of life’s many other unavoidable disasters. If that’s too dreary or pretentious, then I’ll say it another way: I hope you like the pieces. Behind this incredible work lies beautiful, complex human beings, which I emphasize precisely because of the diversity of this issue. These contributors are curious and grieving and playful. Often at the same time. Their voices represent communities we don’t hear enough from, and the sheer liveliness and range of their voices and stories are remarkable.

Besides my well-wishes, I hope you, dear reader, are in a place where you can take all the time you need with these pieces. The most important hope we have will always be for ourselves and our lives. It is only from this lodestar, our own definition and practice of hope, that we can turn hope back out into the world and towards our people. So, my friends, grieve for hope and hope for grief so that you may heal whatever wounds this issue reopens.