The dishes have been sitting there for three days.

The laundry is piling up. The emails are unanswered. The calls are unreturned. The things that used to take you twenty minutes now feel like climbing a mountain.

And you’re starting to wonder what’s wrong with you.

Nothing is wrong with you.

You’re not lazy. You’re not falling apart. You’re not weak or unmotivated or losing your mind.

You’re grieving.

And grief is the most exhausting thing a human being can experience.

It takes everything you have just to get out of bed some days. Just to shower. Just to eat something. Just to answer one text without feeling completely depleted.

People don’t understand that. They see you not keeping up and they think you’re not trying. They think if you just pushed yourself a little harder, got into a routine, stayed busy—you’d be fine.

But they don’t know what it feels like to carry this weight.

To wake up every morning already exhausted before the day even starts. To spend so much energy just holding yourself together that there’s nothing left for anything else.

Grief is a full-time job. And nobody pays you for it. Nobody gives you time off for it. Nobody sees the work you’re doing just to survive it.

But I see you.

I see how hard you’re working just to stay above water. I see the effort it takes just to get dressed. I see you showing up even when every part of you wants to disappear. I see you getting through a day without falling apart.

That’s not laziness. That’s grief.

And grief doesn’t care about your to-do list. It doesn’t care about your deadlines or your responsibilities or the expectations other people have of you.

It just shows up. Heavy and relentless. And demands everything you have.

So, give yourself grace. Stop measuring yourself against who you were before. Stop comparing your grief-self to your before-self.

That person existed before loss rewrote everything. Before the weight settled in. Before you knew what this kind of pain felt like.

You’re doing the best you can. And right now, your best looks different than it used to.

And that’s okay.

The dishes can wait. The emails can wait. The laundry can wait.

You’re not lazy. You’re just trying to survive the unsurvivable.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

A FREE Community for Women looking for support in their grief, connection with women who understand, and help figuring out how to live again without leaving their loved one behind

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I know you wanted more time with me.

I wanted more time with you, too.

We weren’t finished. There were things we were supposed to do. Conversations we never got to have. Days we thought we could count on.

I know you’re still angry about that.

I know there are nights you cry because you’re tired of figuring out how to live without me. And mornings when you open your eyes and remember that you have to do it again.

I wish I could be there for those.

I wish you could tell me how bad it is and hear me answer.

I can’t change what happened. And I’m not going to tell you to stop being sad about it.

I know why you’re sad.

We had a life together. I was supposed to be in yours longer.

But you’re still here.

And I still want good things for you.

I want you to have something to look forward to. To make plans because you want to go, instead of saying yes so people will stop worrying.

I want you to laugh so hard you have to catch your breath. And when you realize you haven’t thought about me for a few hours, I don’t want that to ruin the rest of your day.

You haven’t forgotten me.

You had a few good hours.

I want you to have more of them.

I know you’d choose having me back over any of it. You don’t have to explain that.

But this is the life you have, even though it isn’t the one we wanted.

And I hate to think of you believing that all the good ended with me.

There are people you haven’t met yet who will be so glad they know you. Things you’ll try and wonder why you waited so long. Days you’ll wish you could tell me about because you were happy.

I want those days for you.

Even if you cry afterward because I wasn’t there.

I loved being part of your life.

I would have stayed for all of it if I could.

And I know it’s hard to believe there’s still so much good ahead of you.

But I want you to enjoy your life again. Even while you miss me.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

A FREE Community for Women looking for support in their grief, connection with women who understand, and help figuring out how to live again without leaving their loved one behind

Join She Still Rises

I could scream that I need you.
Beg until I can barely breathe.
And you would still be gone.

I know you’re gone. But knowing hasn’t stopped me from wanting you here.

I can still hear you laughing. I know what you’d say about things. I remember the last time I saw you, and I cannot make that be the last time.

But I don’t get a choice.

That’s why this hurts so much.

I want something I cannot have, and nothing else comes close.

Someone can hug me, and I’ll cry because I want it to be you.

Something good can happen, and I’ll want to tell you so badly that I stop enjoying it.

I can spend hours with people who love me and still come home upset because you weren’t there.

And I’m tired.

Tired of remembering.
Tired of being caught off guard by something I already know.
Tired of waking up after a terrible night and having to do another whole day without you.

Sometimes I look at a picture and think, how?

How are you right there, smiling at me, and I can never see you again?

How did we go from talking and making plans to me trying to remember the last thing you said?

I want to reach into that picture.

I want to go back to when it was taken, before I knew what it would feel like to have so much to say to you and no way to say it.

People tell me I’ll always have the memories.

I know.

But I remember what it was like to have you.

And there are days when looking at what’s left just makes me cry harder.

Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with only the voice I remember.

What would you say to me now? I’d give anything to hear it.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

A FREE Community for Women looking for support in their grief, connection with women who understand, and help figuring out how to live again without leaving their loved one behind

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I’ve gone ahead of you.

Not because I wanted to — but because I had no choice.

Up here, I’ve claimed a spot with your name on it.

It’s yours, no one else’s.

I’m holding it just for you.

Waiting.

I want you to know there’s more than this.

More than the pain that keeps you up at night.

More than the emptiness that follows you through the day.

This isn’t the end.

Not for me.

Not for you.

So live while you can.

Say yes, to the big, scary stuff.

Love the people I can’t love for myself anymore.

And when you’ve given everything, you have down there — you’ll find me here.

In the place I saved.

And it will feel like you were never apart from me at all.

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There was a day—I don't even remember how long after—when the wave hit.

I was doing something completely ordinary. Something mundane.

And the wave came crashing down.
Not gently.
Not gradually.
Like a tsunami that came out of nowhere and knocked me off my feet.

I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't stand.
I couldn't do anything but let it pull me under.

They're gone.
Actually gone.
Not coming back. Ever.

I'd been living with that truth.
But on this day, the wave just came. And it destroyed me.

I couldn't fight it.
I couldn't push through it.
All I could do was let it take me.

People talk about grief coming in waves.
And it does.
But nobody tells you about the waves that come out of nowhere weeks, months or years later.
The ones that hit when you think you're starting to find your footing again.

This wave showed me I'd never really had my footing at all.
I was just standing in shallow water, and this pulled me straight into the deep end.
I don't know what triggered it.

Maybe nothing.
Maybe the wave was always coming, and I just didn't see it.
Maybe something small reminded me. Maybe my brain finally let itself feel what had been building.

All I know is the wave hit.
And I went under.
And for a while, I didn't know if I'd come back up.

Eventually, I did.

The wave passed.
I caught my breath.
I stood back up.

But I know now: the waves don't stop.
They just keep coming.

Some days they're small.
Manageable.
I can see them coming and brace myself.

Other days they're like that day.
Out of nowhere.
Massive.
Unstoppable.

And all I can do is let them hit.
Let them pull me under.
And hope I surface on the other side.

That's what I learned the day the wave hit.
Grief isn't just one moment.
It's wave after wave.
Some you see coming.
Some you don't.
All of them relentless.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

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My mom is dead.

I hate that sentence.

I hate writing it.

I hate that no matter how much I hate it, it’s still true.

When I get sick, I want my mom.

I want her asking what’s wrong.

Checking on me.

Calling again because she’s worried.

No one will ever take care of me like she did.

And I don’t care how old I get.

Being sick without her makes me feel like a little girl crying for her mom.

When something good happens, I want to tell her first.

I want to hear her get excited.

Tell her every detail, because she would want to hear all of it.

And it hurts to be that happy about something and still want to cry because my mom isn’t here for it.

When I’m scared, I want her to tell me it’s going to be okay.

Even if she can’t promise that.

I just want to hear it from her.

There are things I’ll never get to ask her.

About my childhood.

About her life before me.

Things only she could tell me.

I thought we had more time.

And sometimes I just want to talk to my mom.

Nothing happened.

I just miss her.

I want to hear her voice.

Hear her laugh.

I hate that I can’t even have that anymore.

Just a conversation with my mom.

I want to be her daughter with her here.

Now I have pictures.

Memories.

Whatever I can still remember of her voice.

But I want my mother.

I want to hug her without having to remember what it felt like.

My mom died once.

But her being dead didn’t end with that day.

It’s every day I’ve lived since.

And every day I have left.

I think that’s the part I still can’t accept.

That I have to spend the rest of my life loving her without getting to spend any more of it with her.

She’s dead. Forever.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available on Amazon

A FREE Community for Women looking for support in their grief, connection with women who understand, and help figuring out how to live again without leaving their loved one behind

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I haven’t even gotten out of bed, and I already want to cry.

Nothing happened.
Nobody said anything.

You’re just still gone.

And I’m supposed to get up and do another day knowing that. Knowing I can’t call you. Knowing every plan I make has to happen without you.

It makes me angry as hell.

Because I didn’t choose this.
I don’t want this.
And there’s nothing I can do to change it.

People want to know how I’m doing, but sometimes I wonder if they really want the answer.

That I’m tired.
That I still need you.
That some days I look at the rest of my life and think, how am I supposed to do all of that without you?

That’s uncomfortable to hear.

It’s worse to live.

Grief is in my face every day. Even when I say nothing about it. Even when I smile and give everyone a version of me, they don’t have to worry about.

So, when I do talk about it, I don’t want to soften every word.

Someone I love is dead.

There is no comfortable way to say that.
And there is no painless way to live with it.

I shouldn’t have to make it sound like there is.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

A FREE Community for Women looking for support in their grief, connection with women who understand, and help figuring out how to live again without leaving their loved one behind

Join She Still Rises

Grief is like glitter.

The moment your world shatters, it’s as if someone threw it into the air — and it rained down over everything. It settles into your skin, your hair, the deepest cracks of your life.

You try to sweep it up, desperate to feel in control of something. You think you’ve cleared it away… until it shows up again. Months later. Years later. In the corner of a picture frame, you dust every week. On the sleeve of a sweater, you’ve worn a dozen times without noticing it was there. Stuck to the floor where the light hits just right and suddenly it’s undeniable again.

You’ll never get it all. It will always be there — this glitter of grief, catching the light in both beautiful and brutal ways.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

I’m tired of just getting through my days.

I know I have things to be thankful for. I know people love me. But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt less that you’re gone.

Sometimes people try so hard to help that I tell them they have. I don’t want them to feel bad. Then I’m alone, still hurting, wondering why I felt like I had to make them feel better.

Sometimes I don’t want to talk about grief. I want to talk to you.

I want to tell you what happened. I want your opinion. I want a conversation where I don’t have to imagine what you’d say.

And it makes me angry that something I used to do without even thinking is now something I can’t have, no matter how badly I need it.

There are things I wish I’d said to you. I can say them now, but I don’t get to know what you would have said back. I don’t get to ask if you understood. I have to live with not knowing.

That’s what feels so unbearable sometimes. I can’t fix this. I can’t make one more conversation happen.

And I’m tired of being expected to feel better about something that isn’t going to change.

I want to enjoy my life. I do. But it hurts when something good happens and I realize, all over again, that I can’t tell you about it.

I’m tired of comforting myself over losing the person I want comfort from.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life this sad. And I don’t want feeling better to become one more thing I feel guilty about.

I want more than getting through my days.

I want to be happy again. And I’m so angry that I have to learn how to do that without you.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

At first, people are everywhere. The messages come in constantly. People drop off food, call to check in, ask if you need anything. Your phone lights up all the time. People show up even when they don’t really know what to say.

And then, little by little, it starts to change.

People go back to their routines. Conversations turn to weekend plans, work, something funny someone’s kid did. Group chats that once checked in on you start talking about vacations and birthdays again. People make plans for next month and next year.

Life starts moving again.

For them.

And maybe that’s when you really begin to notice just how different your life is now.

Because you’re watching everyone else get back to normal when your normal doesn’t exist anymore. Something happened that changed your entire life, and yet the world around you keeps going. People have things to look forward to. Places to go. Plans to make. And you’re still trying to understand how life can look so normal around you when nothing feels normal anymore.

The messages slow down. People don’t ask as often. Your loved one’s name doesn’t come up as much as it used to.

And you notice.

You notice when it’s been a while since someone has asked how you’re really doing. You notice when you’re the one who brings up their name. You notice when you almost say something about them and then stop because you don’t know if anyone wants to hear it again.

Sometimes you stare at your phone and think about reaching out, but you don’t even know what you would say. Because how many times can you tell someone you still miss them? How many times can you say you’re having a hard day? How many times can you say that this is still hard when it feels like everyone else expects it to be a little less hard by now?

That’s the loneliness people don’t always see.

It’s not only missing the person you love.

It’s watching everyone else’s life continue while you’re still trying to figure out what yours looks like without them.

And sometimes, the silence that follows is deafening.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

I hear from so many women who are looking for more support and connection after loss. I saw a real need for a place where we could find each other, and that’s why I created She Still Rises.

It’s a free community where you can connect with women who understand what you’re going through. If that sounds like something you’ve been looking for, take a look here:

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I look at old photos and I’m jealous.

Jealous of the person I used to be. The one who didn’t know this pain yet. The one who still had you.

I see myself in those pictures—smiling, laughing, completely unaware of what’s coming—and I envy her.

Because she didn’t know. She didn’t carry this weight. She didn’t wake up every day with this hole in her chest.

She got to live in a world where you were still in it.

And I would give anything to be her again.

I’m jealous of every version of me that got to have you. The me from last year. Five years ago. Ten years ago.

The me who could call you whenever I wanted. The me who didn’t know what it felt like to lose you.

I’m jealous of the conversations I had with you. The time we spent together. The ordinary moments I didn’t know would become memories I’d cling to for the rest of my life.

And now it’s gone. And I can’t get it back.

I look at old texts between us and I’m jealous of the me who got to receive those messages. Who got to hear your voice. Who got to see you.

I look at photos from holidays, birthdays, random ordinary days—and I’m jealous of the me who was living in those moments.

I’m jealous of how easy it was. How normal it felt. How I didn’t know those moments would be all we’d ever have.

But how could I have known? How was I supposed to know that time was running out?

I couldn’t. And that’s what makes it so hard.

I’m jealous of my own past self. The one who didn’t know this grief. The one who still got to have you.

And I’d give anything—anything—to be her again.

Even just for one more day.

One more conversation. One more hug. One more chance to be in your presence without knowing it would end.

But I can’t go back. I can’t undo the loss. I can’t unknow what I know now.

I can only look at who I used to be and ache for her. For the version of me that had you. For the life I lived before I knew what it felt like to lose you.

I’m jealous of my own past.

And I’ll spend the rest of my life missing the person I was when you were still here.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

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I see you.

I know you think I’m gone, that I’m somewhere far away where I can’t reach you anymore.

But I’m here.

Not the way I used to be—I can’t hold you or call you or show up at your door.

But I’m here.

I see you trying.

I see you getting up every morning even when it feels impossible.

I see you forcing yourself through the day, through the motions, through the moments that used to be ours.

I see you crying in the car.

At the grocery store. At 2AM when you can’t sleep.

I see the way you reach for your phone to text me and then remember.

I see how hard this is.

And I wish I could tell you it’s okay. That you’re doing better than you think. That I’m not mad you’re struggling or disappointed you’re not “moving on” fast enough.

I’m proud of you.

For still being here. For still showing up. For carrying this weight even when it feels like too much.

I know you miss me. I miss you too. More than I can explain.

I miss your laugh. Your voice. The way you’d tell me about your day.

I miss being there for the big stuff and the small stuff and everything in between.

But I need you to know something: I’m okay. I’m not in pain anymore. I’m not scared. I’m not struggling.

Whatever you’re worried about for me—let it go.

I’m okay.

And I need you to be okay too.

Not right now.

Not tomorrow.

But eventually.

I need you to live. Really live. Not just survive. Not just exist. Live.

Say yes to things. Take chances. Love people. Laugh without feeling guilty. Be happy without feeling like you’re betraying me.

Because you’re not. You could never.

Your happiness doesn’t erase me. Your joy doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten. Living your life fully isn’t moving on—it’s honoring what we had by not letting it destroy you.

I don’t want you stuck in the grief forever.

I don’t want you putting your life on hold waiting for a reunion.

I want you to be here while you’re here. To squeeze every bit of good out of the time you have left.

Because one day—when you’ve lived and loved and done everything you’re meant to do—you’ll find me again.

And I’ll be right here. Waiting.

With that same smile.

That same love.

And it will feel like no time passed at all.

But until then?

Live for both of us.

I love you.

I always will.

And I’m so damn proud of you for still standing.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

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Grief gets in your head and your body.

Even good things make you nervous now.

You don’t trust peace.
You don’t trust timing.

You’ve seen how fast life can turn,
so, you brace yourself — even when there’s nothing to brace for.

You used to look forward to things.
You used to believe that hard work, love, or prayer could change how it ended.

You hoped the treatment would work.
You hoped they’d pull through.
You hoped you’d have more time.

And when none of that happened, something inside you shut down.

Now it’s hard to believe in much of anything.

When something good happens, you wait for it to go wrong.
When people talk about blessings, you stay quiet.

You don’t want to sound bitter,
but you can’t fake excitement when you’ve watched life take what you love most.

This is what grief does.

It wrecks your sense of safety.
It makes every bit of good feel temporary.

You start guarding yourself,
because it feels easier to expect the worst than to hope for more.

And I don’t know if that ever changes.
Maybe it does.
Maybe one day I’ll stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But right now?
I’m just trying to survive in a world that took everything from me.
And trust doesn’t come easy anymore.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

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Grief and gratitude aren’t separate chapters. They arrive together, tangled up in the same moments. You can be sitting with everything you’ve lost and, at the very same time, recognize how much you were given. It’s not neat. It’s not a choice. It’s just the way love leaves its mark—through both the hurt and the thankfulness that refuse to let go.

Gratitude doesn’t take the sting out of grief. It doesn’t change the fact that they’re gone. But it reminds you that what remains is a gift of having known them, loved them, and been loved by them.

There are days when grief takes over and gratitude feels impossible to find. And then there are days when gratitude slips in—a memory that makes you laugh, the sound of their voice in your head, the way their influence still shapes who you are. Grief pulls you back to the pain of what’s gone, gratitude points you toward what will always stay with you. Neither one cancels the other out. They move together, sometimes shifting, sometimes overlapping, but always reminding you that grief only exists because love did first.

Grief keeps you tied to the truth that someone you love isn’t here anymore. Gratitude keeps you tied to the life you shared with them. It’s not easy. It’s not fair. But it’s real. And it’s the proof that love doesn’t end, even when life does.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

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I’ll miss you for the rest of my life.

Sometimes I don’t think people understand how long that is.

The rest of my life.

However many years I have left, I have to live every single one of them without you.

I’ll get older, and you won’t.

There will be pictures of me at ages you never get to see. There will be people who become important to me that you will never know.

There will be whole parts of me that come after you.

And that is so hard for me to accept.

Because our time together is finished.

There are no more years being added to it. No new stories between us. No new pictures of us. No chance to know each other five years from now, or ten, or twenty.

Everything we had has already happened.

But my life keeps going.

Every birthday I have puts more time between the last time you were here and where I am now.

And one day, I may realize I have lived more of my life without you than I ever got to live with you.

I don’t know what to do with that.

Because I never wanted you to become someone from an earlier part of my life.

I wanted you in all of it.

And all of it was supposed to be so much longer.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

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What am I supposed to do with all this love now?

Seriously.

Because I still have all of it.

You died.

My love for you didn’t.

And I don’t think I was prepared for how hard that would be.

I wake up loving you.

I go to bed loving you.

I love you on the days I can’t stop crying.

I love you on the days I somehow make it through.

I love you when I’m angry that you’re gone.

I love you when I still can’t believe you’re gone.

I love you just as much as I did when you were here.

That’s the problem.

Because you aren’t here.

And somehow, I’m supposed to keep living without you while still loving you just as much as I always have.

Nothing about losing you changed that.

I still love you.

Every day.

And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to love someone this much for the rest of my life and never see them again.

Maybe that’s the part I still can’t wrap my head around.

You stopped living.

But I never stopped loving you.

And I don’t think I ever will.

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If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

Share

No one tells you what happens after the tidal wave.

In the beginning, grief is loud. It crashes into you with no warning, taking your breath, your footing, your sense of safety. You can’t eat. You can’t sleep. You can’t believe this is real. The pain is so consuming, you wonder how the world around you keeps moving like nothing happened.

But then—slowly, cruelly—it does. The calls taper off. The texts become fewer. Life around you picks up again… just not yours. You’re left standing in the wreckage, trying to figure out how to live in a world that feels unfamiliar and wrong.

This is the part no one prepares you for.

Because grief doesn’t disappear when the casseroles stop coming or when the funeral flowers wilt. It doesn’t follow a timeline, and it certainly doesn’t care what anyone else thinks you should feel by now. It just… settles in. Quieter. Heavier. Always there.

You start to notice it in small moments. A song on the radio that makes your chest tighten. A familiar scent that stops you cold in the grocery store. An empty chair at dinner that still feels impossible to look at.

Grief becomes less of a storm and more of a shadow. It moves with you. Some days, you almost forget it’s there. Other days, it takes the wheel completely, and you’re back in the thick of it—sobbing in the car, staring out the window, wondering how this is your life now.

The hardest part? The world expects you to be “okay.” But how do you explain that you’re not broken—you’re just forever changed?

Grief doesn’t go away. It evolves. The sharp pain dulls. The raw wound scars over. But it never disappears. It becomes part of you—woven into your story, your laughter, your quiet moments. And strangely, it starts to feel… sacred. Because underneath it all, that pain is love. Real, lasting, life-altering love. And that love deserves space.

So if you’re still riding the waves—some days steady, some days drowning—please know this: you’re not failing. You’re not weak. You’re just human. And this? This is what love looks like when it doesn’t have a place to go.

There’s no finish line in grief. No “getting back to normal.” There’s only forward, one breath at a time. And in that forward, there is space for laughter again. For lightness. For joy.

Not because you’ve moved on.

But because your love is still here. And somehow, so are you.

Subscribe now

If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

Share

“You got this.”

People say it because they’re trying to encourage you.

And in a lot of situations, I love those words.

Big presentation? You got this.
Hard conversation? You got this.
Something you’re scared to do? You got this.

But grief?

I don’t always want to hear that I’ve “got this.”

Because sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I’m barely holding it together.

Sometimes I’m angry that I even have to figure out how to live without someone I love.

Sometimes I don’t want to be reminded how strong I am or how much I’ve already survived.

I didn’t ask to be strong enough for this.

I didn’t ask to learn how to live with this.

And I don’t want to feel like I need to convince anyone that I can handle it.

I know when someone says, “You got this,” they usually mean:

I believe in you.
You’re stronger than you think.
You’re going to make it through this.

I know the intention is good.

But when I’m grieving, sometimes those words feel like one more thing being asked of me.

Keep going.
Stay strong.
Get through it.

Maybe I don’t need you to tell me I’ve got this.

Maybe I need you to look at me and say:

“This is really hard.”

“You don’t have to be okay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Because there are days when I don’t have this.

There are days when grief knocks me flat.

There are days when all I can do is make it through the next hour.

And I don’t need someone standing on the other side telling me I’m strong enough to get there.

I need someone willing to sit down beside me so I can stand up again.

I don’t need you to fix this.

I don’t need you to make me feel better.

And I don’t need you to remind me how strong I am.

I just need to know that on the days when I don’t have this, I don’t have to have it alone.

Subscribe now

If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

Share

There’s a version of me that existed when they were still alive.

I can still picture her—laughing more freely, moving through life with a kind of ease she didn’t even realize she had.

She didn’t know how fragile everything really was.

She didn’t know that one phone call, one diagnosis, one final breath could change her forever.

I’m not her anymore.

But I haven’t quite figured out who I am now, either.

And that’s the gap.

That strange, quiet space between who I used to be and who I’m becoming.

It’s filled with memories I can’t let go of and questions I don’t know how to answer.

I’m living in the in-between—still tethered to the past but slowly learning how to breathe in the present.

Grief has carved out pieces of me I didn’t even know existed.

Some days I feel lost in it.

Other days I catch small glimpses of the new version of me—wiser, softer, stronger in ways I never asked to be.

But mostly, I just miss them.

And I miss the me I was when they were still here.

So, if you’re here too, trying to make sense of this version of yourself that doesn’t quite fit yet—

I see you.

This gap isn’t a failure.

It’s the sacred space where healing begins.

Where identity shifts.

Where love and loss coexist.

You’re not broken.

You’re becoming.

And even in the gap, you are never alone.

Subscribe now

If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.

I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.

If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here

Available now on Amazon

Share