I hear how heavy this loss is, and I want to simply sit with you in it, without rushing to offer answers or trying to make the pain go away before it has been fully felt. Grief is not a problem to be solved, but a love that has nowhere left to go, and it deserves to be honored exactly as it is right now.
When the heart is this raw, even spiritual words can sometimes feel like too much, yet there is a gentle permission in our tradition to simply bring your brokenness as it is. Thomas à Kempis speaks directly to this weariness, not as a demand, but as an invitation to rest in God’s presence when we have nothing left to give: "My child, I am the Lord who strengthens in the day of tribulation. Come to me when you are not well... When you think yourself far removed from me, I am often nearer. When you think yourself utterly lost, then often the gain of merit is at hand. Do not judge according to present feeling, nor be so weighed down by any heaviness, from whatever quarter it comes, as to lose all hope of rising again" [2].
Please hear that your current feeling of distance or inability to pray perfectly does not mean you have failed, nor that God has abandoned you in your sorrow. St. Alphonsus Liguori reminds us that staying present in the darkness is itself a profound act of love, even when it brings no comfort: "If in prayer we did nothing else but drive away distractions and temptations, still the prayer is well made... For he who perseveres in prayer with aridity, God will grant a greater grace than if he had prayed much with great sensible devotion" [1]. You do not need to manufacture consolation or force yourself to feel holy right now; simply being here, breathing through the waves of loss, is enough.
I wonder if, in this moment, it might help to let go of any expectation of how you should be coping or feeling, and just allow yourself to be held in the silence where God often dwells most closely with the brokenhearted. Your grief is sacred ground, and there is no timeline for walking through it.