At first, “forever” doesn’t even seem possible.

You’re just trying to make it through the next hour.
Then the next day.
Then the next morning when you have to wake up and face the reality that they’re still gone.

Eventually, you realize that “forever” isn’t one moment.

It’s thousands of moments.

The conversation you wish you could have.
The milestone they should have been here for.
The photo that still stops you.
The days that feel manageable.
The days that don’t.

Some mornings, forever feels impossible.

Other days, you surprise yourself by getting through something you never thought you could.

Not because the loss hurts less.

But because you’ve made it through another day you once believed you couldn’t.

Maybe that’s all hope is.

Not believing everything will be okay.

Just believing that, somehow, you’ll find your way through today...

...and then tomorrow, when it comes.

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If you’ve enjoyed my writing here, What Remains brings together many of my most meaningful pieces in one place. It’s a collection of writings about grief, love, loss, and the lasting connections that remain.

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They sneak up on you.
The memories you never saw coming.

One minute you’re driving home, making dinner, answering emails.

The next, something catches you off guard.

A song.

A familiar smell.

A place you haven’t thought about in months.

And suddenly you’re back there.

You can picture their face.

You hear their laugh.

You remember a conversation you hadn’t thought about in years.

For a moment, the distance between then and now disappears.

Sometimes the memories make you smile.

You remember something they said, an inside joke, or one of those moments that seemed so ordinary at the time but now mean everything.

Other memories are much harder.

The hospital room.

The phone call.

The goodbye you never wanted to say.

Those memories don’t ask if you’re ready.

They show up while you’re standing in line at the store, sitting in a meeting, or lying awake long after everyone else has gone to sleep.

And when they do, it can feel like you’ve been pulled right back into the hardest part of your loss.

Grief has a way of bringing those moments back when you least expect them.

The memories will always be there.

Some will make you laugh.

Some will bring tears.

Most will do a little of both.

And if one catches you off guard today, know you’re not the only one.

It’s part of loving someone who is no longer here.

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There’s a kind of guilt that sneaks in after loss.

The kind that whispers,

“You should’ve done more.”

“You should’ve known.”

“You should’ve been stronger.”

I didn’t expect it.

No one tells you how heavy that guilt can feel — or how long it lingers.

But little by little…

I’ve been learning to forgive myself.

For the things I couldn’t control.

For the moments I didn’t show up the way I wanted to.

For being human in the middle of it all.

Little by little…

I’ve stopped replaying every detail.

I’ve stopped measuring my grief against what I think I should feel by now.

I’ve started breathing again — without feeling like I’m betraying them.

And little by little…

I’m letting grace in.

Because love is not measured by how long we stay broken.

And they would never want me to carry this pain like a punishment.

They would want me to heal.

To smile.

To live.

Little by little…

I’m trying.

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Some days I look at my life and wonder how I’m still moving forward.

When you’ve been hit over and over, when your heart has been changed in ways you never expected, it’s easy to lose sight of anything good.

But here’s what I’ve learned.

I need something to reach for.

I need one thing—even the smallest thing—that reminds me there’s more to this day than my pain.

Not because life is easy.
Not because grief suddenly lets up.
But because if I stop noticing the small things, the hard days become the only thing I can see.

I’m not looking for big moments.

Sometimes it’s my shoulders relaxing for the first time all day.
A breath that doesn’t feel so tight.
A memory that brings a smile instead of tears.
A quiet moment that reminds me I’m still here.

Gratitude isn’t pretending everything is okay.

It’s choosing not to let grief have every inch of today.

Even if all I can find is one small thing, that’s enough.

And hope?

I’ve stopped waiting for it to find me.

I’ve learned that hope is something I build, piece by piece, with whatever I can find.

Because hope isn’t always a feeling. Sometimes it’s simply leaving room for the possibility that this won’t always feel exactly like it does today. Sometimes it’s believing there are still moments ahead that will make me smile, laugh, feel connected, or simply remind me that life isn’t finished with me yet.

And on the days my heart is tired, bruised, and questioning everything, I remind myself to look for just one reason to believe tomorrow might feel a little different.

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Hello, I’m Grief.

I wasn’t invited,
but I showed up anyway.
Not loud. Not announced.
Just sudden.
Unwelcome.
Like a whisper you didn’t hear—until it was the only thing you could.

You didn’t recognize me at first.
You thought I was shock.
Exhaustion.
Numbness.
But no.
It was me.
It’s still me.

I arrived without warning
and I rearranged everything.
I crept into the empty spaces they used to fill.
Crawled into your silence.
I curled up beside you when the house felt too quiet
and the world outside just kept going.

And I stayed.

I’ve watched you break in places no one sees.
I’ve watched you hold your breath in rooms where they used to laugh.
I’ve watched you smile just to survive the day.

You hate me, I know.
And I get it.
I showed up right when your world fell apart—
when the laughter stopped,
when the calls stopped,
when they were gone.

I didn’t cause the shattering.
But I’m what’s left in the silence.
The part you didn’t ask for,
but can’t seem to let go of either.

I won’t disappear.
But I will change.
Some days I’ll be a storm.
Other days, a shadow.
And once in a while,
you might notice I’ve made room
for something else—
a flicker of joy.
A moment of hope.

I’m not the ending.
I’m what moved in when the world split open—
when everything you knew came crashing down.
I’m what lingers in the rubble they left behind.

But if you let me,
I might show you that even here,
in the ruins of what was…
something softer can still grow.

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One of the cruelest lessons grief teaches you is how fast everything changes and how fast you’re expected to keep up.

There’s no adjustment period.
No slow transition.
One day things make sense, and the next you’re standing inside a life you don’t recognize.
You’re trying to move through the day, and it barely feels like yours anymore.

You don’t get a say.
You don’t get time to ease into any of this.
You’re trying to figure out how to function
while everything feels unfamiliar and off.

You’re learning how to show up
when your mind is scattered,
when you’re exhausted,
when nothing feels right,
and you’re doing it without the person you could always rely on.

No one prepares you for how disorienting that is.
For how much effort it takes just to get through the days.
For how quickly you’re expected to adjust to a life you didn’t choose.

It’s painful.
It’s unfair.
And it doesn’t let up.

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My dad would drop everything for me.

Didn’t matter what it was. Something broke around the house, he was there. I needed to talk something through, he was there, fully present. He didn’t just show up for me. He showed up with me — at the things I loved, doing the things I loved, because he genuinely wanted to be there, not because he had to be.

He was the one I knew, no matter what, would show up.

And this weekend, the world is full of cookouts and golf clubs and “World’s Best Dad” mugs, and I’m just missing mine.

If you’re reading this and you get it — if Father’s Day isn’t a celebration for you so much as it is a day you have to get through — I see you. Whether you lost your dad last month or fifteen years ago. Whether your relationship with him was everything or complicated or somewhere you’re still making peace with. Whether you’re a daughter, a son, missing the dad you had or grieving the dad you needed and never got.

This weekend can hold all of it. The love. The missing. The unfairness of watching everyone else celebrate something you’d give anything to have one more day of.

You don’t have to pretend this weekend doesn’t hurt. You don’t have to scroll past the photos and the tributes like they don’t get you right in the chest. You’re allowed to miss him loudly today.

So, here’s to the dads who showed up. Who dropped everything. Who fixed what was broken and listened when it couldn’t be fixed. Who loved us loud and showed it.

We miss you, Dad. Every single day. But today especially.

To everyone else missing theirs this weekend — you’re not alone in this. Not even close.

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I was a daughter before I was anything.
And he was my dad.

He was strong, quiet, and always there—
and I never realized how much that meant until he wasn’t.

I miss his jokes that weren’t really funny, but I laughed anyway.

I miss calling him when I was on a walk or driving home, just to talk about nothing.

I miss him bragging about me to people when he thought I wasn’t listening.

I miss the way he looked at me like I was still his little girl, even when I was all grown up.

And now all those little moments I used to take for granted...
Feel like the things I miss the most.

No one talks about the heartache that settles in after a dad dies.

How quiet everything feels without him.
How the world shifts just slightly—enough that nothing feels quite right anymore.
How you look around and realize...
you’re not anyone’s little girl now.

I’d give anything to hear him say, “Hi, sweetheart,” one more time.

I miss knowing he was out there somewhere.

Rooting for me.
Worrying about me.
Loving me in that quiet, steady way only dads can.

And I don’t know how to be okay in a world that doesn’t have him in it.
His number’s still in my phone.
His hat’s still on my shelf.
But he’s not here.

People say, “He’s watching over you.”
But that’s not the same.
It’s not enough.
Because I don’t want signs.
I want him.

I wasn’t ready.
I’ll never be ready.

Because when he died, I didn’t just lose my dad—
I lost the one person who always saw the little girl in me.
The first man who ever loved me.
And the only one who could love me the way he did.

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Living without you seems impossible.

Because you weren't just part of my life.
You were my life.
You were woven into everything.
Every plan I made.
Every decision.
Every moment.

And now you're gone.
And I'm supposed to just... keep going?
How?

How do I live in a world that doesn't have you in it?
How do I make plans for a future you're not part of?
How do I care about anything when the person I cared about most is missing from all of it?

I don't know how to do this.

I wake up every morning and for a split second, I forget.
And then I remember.
And the weight of it crushes me all over again.

You're gone.

And I have to live an entire day without you.
And then another.
And another.
For the rest of my life.

That feels impossible.

I don't want to learn to live with it.
I don't want to get used to a life without you in it.
I don't want this to become my normal.

Because a life without you isn't a life I ever wanted.

Everything feels wrong now.

I go through the motions.
I do what I'm supposed to do.
I show up.
I function.
But I'm not living.
Not really.

I'm surviving.
Barely.
Just getting from one day to the next.
Trying not to drown in the weight of missing you.

I'm just... here.
Existing.
Going through the motions of a life that doesn't feel like mine anymore.

Because my life had you in it.
And now it doesn't.

And I don't know who I am in this version.
I don't know how to be me without you.

Every day feels like I'm walking through fog.
Like I'm watching my life happen from behind glass.
I can see it.
I can participate in it.
But I can't actually feel it the way I used to.

Because you were what made it real.
You were what made it matter.
And without you, it's all just noise.

I know I'm supposed to keep living.
I know that's what you'd want.

I know life goes on whether I'm ready or not.
But living without you seems impossible.

And some days, I don't know if I'm strong enough to keep doing it.

But I get up anyway.
I keep breathing.
I keep moving forward.

Not because I want to.
Not because I know how.
But because I don't have a choice.

Living without you seems impossible.
But somehow, I'm still here.

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It shows up after the first wave hits.
After the shock wears off.
After the tears finally slow down
and you think maybe — just maybe — you’re finding your way.

That’s when a different kind of grief steps in.
The kind that settles into your days
and stays close
whether you want it there or not.

It doesn’t knock you down.
It doesn’t disappear either.
It just sits with you — steady, constant —
a reminder that this pain isn’t something you get past.
It becomes something you live alongside.

It shows up in your body.
Headaches that linger.
Nights where you can’t shut your mind off.
Anxiety that comes out of nowhere.
Feeling scattered.
Restless.
Unable to focus.
Like your whole system is stuck in some half-alert state
because grief has rewired everything.

You can be doing alright,
having a normal day,
and it still creeps in.
A thought.
A memory.
Something that reminds you of the life you had
and the person you lost —
and suddenly you feel it again,
that low-level heaviness that never leaves.

This isn’t the early grief everyone talks about.
This is the grief that shows up later,
when the world thinks you’re better,
when you start to believe you might actually be healing.

You can rebuild yourself.
You can find pieces of joy again.
You can laugh, hope, try —
and still feel that quiet pull inside you
that doesn’t go away just because time has passed.

That’s the slow burn.
Not the breakdowns.
Not the chaos.
Just the ongoing reminder
woven into your days and your body
that this loss changed you.

It doesn’t end.
It becomes part of the grief journey —
the part you learn to live with
as you try to piece together
the life you’re building now.

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When someone you love is gone, the ordinary stops being ordinary.
A sweater folded in a drawer.

The blanket they pulled over themselves night after night still draped over the couch.
A recipe written in their handwriting.

These items become relics, tangible connections to the people we’ve loved and lost. They tell stories, hold memories, and offer comfort in a world forever altered by their absence.

Sorting through what’s left behind is brutal. Do you keep it? Do you let it go? There’s no guidebook for how to decide which pieces of someone’s life you keep.

Every drawer you open, every closet you step into, feels like stepping into their world and being forced to decide what stays and what goes. And that decision can rip you open in ways you never saw coming.

Because every object holds a memory. Every choice feels like betrayal and love tangled together.

And in those moments, the emotions come—sometimes you smile, sometimes you sob. Most times, it’s both at once.

When my own losses came, I found myself clinging to things I never thought would matter. A recipe card smudged with flour. A beat-up tennis racket that should’ve been thrown out years ago.

But they weren’t just objects—they were proof. Proof of love. Proof of time I can’t get back.

Eventually, I learned something I wish I didn’t have to: it isn’t the object itself that keeps them close. It’s the story tied to it, the memory that lives in you, the way they shaped who you are now.

So, if you’re in the thick of it—surrounded by the things they left behind—go slow. Be gentle with yourself. Keep what you need. Let go when you’re ready. And remind yourself: releasing an object doesn’t mean releasing them.

They live in you now. In your memories. And in the way you keep going, one day at a time.

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If I could tell you one thing, it would be this:

Please don’t spend your whole life wishing you could have one more day with me.

I know you’d take it if you could.

I would too.

But since we don’t get that choice, I need you to do something else.

Live.

Laugh when something is funny.
Take the trip.
Try the new thing.
Sit in the sun a little longer.
Say yes to things that bring you joy.

Not because you’ve moved on from me.

Because you haven’t.

Love doesn’t work that way.

I don’t need you to prove how much you miss me.

I already know.

What I would want is for you to keep building a life that still has room for happiness.

Carry me with you.

Talk about me.

Think of me when you need to.

But don’t stop living because I’m gone.

The love we shared was never meant to become a cage.

It was meant to help you keep going.

And if I could see you now, that’s what I’d be hoping for.

Not that you’re sad forever.

But that you’re still finding reasons to smile.

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Here’s the truth.

I’m okay. And I’m not.

I’m okay because I’ve figured out how to carry on. I’ve built a life around this loss — found ways to function, to laugh again, to keep going.

But I’m not okay because some days I still can’t believe this is the life I’m living now. There are still things I want to tell them. Conversations I started in my head that never get finished.

There are days I’d give anything to go back to who I was before — before I knew what this kind of loss felt like.

And there are moments I look around at my life and think: this isn’t how the story was supposed to go.

So, when someone asks if I’m okay, I never know what to say. Because the honest answer is both. Both things are true at once.

Grief doesn’t ask you to pick a side. It doesn’t hand you “okay” or “not okay” and make you choose.

Most days, it’s both. At the same time. In the same breath.

And that might be the hardest part to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived inside it.

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Stop apologizing for having feelings.

Cry.
Be angry.
Fall apart.
Sit on the floor if you need to.

Feel all of it.

We have got to stop acting like holding it together is the goal.
It's not.

You lost someone.

Of course you're not okay.
Of course it hurts.
Of course, some days are unbearable.

This is not weakness.
This is grief.
And grief hurts.

Feeling is strength.

Letting yourself fall apart when you need to is strength.
Letting yourself be human is strength.

Grieving is allowed to be messy and loud and ugly and hard.
Feel it.
All of it.

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There’s a kind of grief that starts long before the funeral.

It begins in exam rooms and waiting areas.
In conversations you don’t want to have.
In words that land heavy and stay there.

It shows up when you notice the change in them.
The tiredness they can’t hide anymore.
The look in their eyes that tells you things are worse than they’re saying out loud.

You start grieving while they’re still here.
Still holding their hand.
Still saying I love you like it might somehow help.

You learn how to smile while everything inside you is falling apart.
You help them eat.
Get settled.
Take their meds.
You focus on the small things that get you through one more day.

You act strong because you don’t want to scare them.
You listen while doctor’s talk.
You write things down you never wanted to know.
You survive on caffeine and nerves and whatever keeps you standing.

Time does something strange.
You watch the clock, but you don’t want it to move.
You stay close.
You don’t leave.
Because there is nowhere else you want to be.

You’re exhausted in ways you didn’t know were possible.
But you keep showing up anyway.
You hold their hand.
You make sure they’re comfortable.
You whisper you love them.

You give everything you have left,
because this is the last stretch of loving them like this.
You hold on while the rest of the world starts to loosen its grip.
And you pour every ounce of love you have into the space between now and goodbye.

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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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Here’s what I need you to know.

You won’t remind me of my loss by bringing them up. I haven’t forgotten. They’re with me every minute of every day — there is no reminding me of something I never stop thinking about.

So, ask me.

Ask me what they were like. Ask me what made them laugh. Ask me the story I’ve told a hundred times and let me tell it again.

Say their name. Please. Everyone else avoids it now, like the name itself might break me. But the silence is what breaks me. The silence makes it feel like they never existed at all.

And when you ask — mean it.

Don’t ask and then check your phone. Don’t ask and wait for your turn to talk.

Ask like you actually want to hear it. Then sit with me while I answer, even if I cry, even if you don’t know what to say. You don’t need the right words. You just need to stay.

Because when you let me talk about them, you’re telling me they still get to exist. That they’re still part of the world. That I’m not the only one keeping them alive.

There is no greater gift you can give me.

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Everyone tells you to take it one day at a time.

But what happens when a whole day is too much to ask?

Some days, you’re just trying to get through the next hour. The next cup of coffee. The next breath. And that’s okay.

If today feels impossible, don’t look at the whole day. Just get through this moment. The one you’re in right now.

Looking too far past today can feel impossible when you’re in the middle of grief. But one foot in front of the other, one moment at a time — and you’ll find yourself getting through today. And then the next. And then the next.

Some days that’s all any of us can do.

One moment at a time.

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There’s a version of you that still lives in the life you had before the loss —
where your days made sense,
where the person you loved was still right there,
where you didn’t have to think so hard just to feel like yourself.

And then there’s the version of you that wakes up in this new reality —
the one you never asked for,
the one you’d undo in a heartbeat if you could.
You try to look like you’re here,
but it all feels wrong —
like you’re walking around with a heart that doesn’t know which world it belongs to anymore.

Because part of you is still back there,
in the life that felt safe,
in the memories that still feel warm,
in the moments when everything felt possible.

And part of you is stuck here,
in the after,
trying to figure out how to live a life you never wanted,
trying to make decisions with a heart that’s still broken,
trying to breathe through days that feel too sharp,
too empty,
too nothing-like-the-life-you-had.

That’s the split heart —
loving what was,
living in what is,
trying to survive the space in between.

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"I wish I could take some of your pain away."

People say that to me all the time.
They mean well. I know they do.
They're trying to help.
Trying to show they care.

But here's what they don't understand:
I don't want you to take my pain away.

Because this pain? It's all I have left of them.

It's the proof they were here.
The proof they mattered.
The proof that what we had was real and deep and worth this devastation.

If you take my pain away, what do I have left?
Memories that will fade.
Photos that will yellow.
Stories that will lose their details over time.

But this pain?
This ache that lives in my chest?
This weight I carry every single day?
That's them.
That's the space they left behind.
That's the physical proof that they existed in my life in a way that can't be erased.

I know it sounds backwards.
I know people think pain is the enemy.
Something to fix.
Something to eliminate.
Something I should want to be free of.

But they're wrong.

This pain is sacred.

It's the last connection I have to them.
The last thing that's truly theirs.
The evidence that they changed me, shaped me, left a mark on me that won't ever go away.

If you take my pain away, you take them away.
And I can't lose them twice.

So, when you say you wish you could take my pain away, what I hear is:
I wish I could erase the last piece of them you're still holding onto.

And I can't let that happen.

Yes, it hurts.
God, it hurts.
Some days it's unbearable.
Some days I don't know how I'm still standing under the weight of it.

But it's mine.
And it's theirs.
And I'm not giving it up.

Because the alternative—not feeling this pain—would mean they didn't matter.

That losing them was no big deal.
That I could just move on and forget and act like they were never here.

And that's worse than any pain I could ever feel.

So please don't wish my pain away.
Don't try to fix it or minimize it or make it smaller.

Just sit with me in it.
Acknowledge it.
Let it exist.

Because this pain is love.
It's grief.
It's the price I pay for having had them in my life.

And I'd pay it a thousand times over.

I don't want you to take my pain away.
I want you to understand that this pain is all I have left.

And I'm holding onto it with everything I've got.

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If you’ve enjoyed my writing here, What Remains brings together many of my most meaningful pieces in one place. It’s a collection of writings about grief, love, loss, and the lasting connections that remain.

Available now on Amazon.

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