Am I Grieving Wrong?

Why Grief Feels Different for Everyone

Have you ever looked at another widow and thought,
Why does she seem stronger than me?

Or wondered why you are still crying when someone else is already traveling, dating, or smiling again?

Maybe you have asked yourself quietly,
Am I grieving wrong?

If you have, I want you to hear this clearly.

THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY TO GRIEVE.
The way grief shows up in you makes sense for you.

No two people grieve the same way. Even when the loss looks similar from the outside, the experience inside each person is completely unique. Some cry every day. Some cannot cry at all. Some stay busy, while others can barely get out of bed. Some talk about their person constantly, and others go quiet for months. All of it makes sense.

When your person dies, you begin living in a world that does not fit anymore. Every person who enters that world will find their own way to survive it. The love you had, the way your story unfolded, your history, your personality, and your responsibilities all shape how grief shows up. There is no single version of it.

Still, comparison creeps in.

You see how someone else is coping and wonder why you cannot do the same. You hear about a widow who seems to be moving forward and you start to question yourself. You might think, She is stronger than I am. I should be doing better by now.

Those thoughts add more pain to an already unbearable experience.

Grief is not a race. It is not measured by time. It is not proof of strength or weakness. It is a relationship that continues between you and the person you love.

Some days that relationship feels tender. Other days it feels raw. There are seasons of stillness and seasons of movement. Each one has value.

When you stop comparing your grief to others, even just a little, something can soften. You begin to listen to what your own heart and body need instead of what the world tells you should help.

Maybe you need solitude.
Maybe you need company.
Maybe you need to sit in silence.
Maybe you need to walk outside and feel the air on your face.

Your needs will shift. That is not confusion. That is not failure. That is being human in the middle of loss.

You might also notice that your grief changes over time. What felt impossible one month may feel different the next. You may surprise yourself with a moment of calm or even laughter. Then a wave may return and remind you how fragile it all still is.

This is not relapse.
This is not doing it wrong.

This is the rhythm of grief.

The more you allow your grief to take its own shape, the more you begin to trust yourself. You realize there is no shoulds here. There is only the truth of how it feels right now. That truth is enough.

Grief asks for presence, not performance.

It invites you to stay honest with yourself, to listen, to breathe, and to keep showing up even when you do not know what comes next. In doing that, you begin to rebuild a life that is shaped not by comparison, but by what is real for you.

If you are quietly wondering whether you are doing this wrong, you do not have to sit with that alone.

I offer a Holding the Ember conversation, a free 45 minute call where we can talk about what your grief looks like and how to begin trusting yourself inside it. There is no pressure. Just space to be heard and understood.

You are not grieving wrong.

You are grieving the way someone grieves when they have loved deeply.

When You Look in the Mirror and Don’t Know Who You Are Anymore

After loss, the world you once knew begins to shift. Places that felt familiar seem foreign. Your routines no longer make sense. Nothing and no place feels the same.

And then it happens. You look in the mirror and the person staring back feels unfamiliar. You wake up one day and realize that the version of you who lived in that shared life feels out of reach. Who is this now?

This is one of the hardest parts of grief. You expect sadness and longing. No one tells you that you may also grieve the person you used to be.

You were not just you. You were part of a we.

Your days were shaped by shared plans, shared rhythms, shared dreams. The future you pictured was built together. When your person died, those dreams did not just disappear. They linger. And letting go of them hurts.

You are not only mourning your person.
You are mourning the life you expected.
You are mourning the version of yourself that existed inside that life.

Of course you feel different.

But different does not mean erased.

The love you shared did not vanish. The years you built together did not dissolve. The memories, the habits, the ways you loved and were loved are still inside you. They are not something you move on from. They are the foundation beneath your feet.

Everything that was built around your person is not gone. It lives in you.

The way you learned to love.
The way you learned to show up.
The strength you built together.
The laughter. The history. The shared language no one else understood.

Those things are embers.

They are warm. They are alive. They are not the past. They are part of your present.

It can feel painful to accept that the future will not look like what you both envisioned. That is another layer of grief. You are releasing the dream you planned together. That takes time. That takes tears.

But you do not have to release the love.

What came before is not something to leave behind. It is what you stand on.

From those rich memories and that deep love, something can still grow. Not a replacement life. Not a better life. A different life. One rooted in everything that was true before.

You may start to notice small shifts. You protect your energy more. You say no to what drains you. You speak more honestly about what matters. These are not signs that you are becoming someone new. They are signs that you are living more clearly from what you now know to be true.

You will never be who you were before. That life was real and complete in its own season.

But you are still you.

You are one who loves.
You are one who lived that story.
You are one who will carry it all forward.

If you are standing in that place where you no longer recognize yourself, please know this is not the end of you. It is a turning. It is the slow work of learning how to carry love and loss in the same hands.

If you would like a place to talk about that space between what was and what is, I offer a free 45-minute Holding the Ember conversation. It is simply a steady place to speak your story out loud and begin to see that a future is possible.  

When the Body Forces Surrender

Being sick brings grief closer.
The quiet. The stillness. The care you miss.

Some days, rest is the bravest thing you can do.

I have a cold right now.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing horrible. Just a cold.

There are moments when I feel okay, and then moments when my nose is dripping and my body aches and everything feels off. It’s not a terrible cold. It’s just enough to make me feel not right.

Being sick as a widowed person is so different than being sick when your person is here. Illness, no matter how mild, reaches places that are already hurting.

When I was sick before, before Gary took his last breath, he took care of me. He would get me a blanket. He would make tea and toast. He’d run to the pharmacy if I asked. He might complain about it, but he’d still go.

He would sit with me while we watched garbage on TV. He would be right there with me.

That quiet care mattered more than I knew at the time.

Now, when I’m sick as a widow, all of that is gone.

The house is painfully quiet. It gets dirtier around me. All the care is up to me. And that really sucks.

When your body is depleted and your energy is gone, grief can overwhelm you. Taking care of yourself can feel nearly impossible. The first few times I was sick after Gary died, it completely broke me.

I remember thinking, I’m the only one who gets to take care of me forever.

It felt unfair. It felt too hard. Much harder than I could handle. It felt like one more thing I did not sign up for.

Being sick forces you to stop.

You can’t put on a happy face and push through it. There’s no pretending you’re fine. There’s no powering your way out of it. Your body says no. You’re going to be sick.

And instantly, grief shows up.

Grief understands that language too.

Grief will show up even when you try to push through and pretend you’re fine. Just like sickness, grief will find its way to the surface.

I’ve learned that struggle can feel like movement. It can feel good to be doing something, to feel like something is happening. But struggling against sickness, or struggling against grief, is a waste of energy. Especially when we’re already worn down.

The more I resist what’s happening in my body, the worse it feels. The more I fight rest, the longer recovery takes.

Sometimes the only answer is non movement.

Lying still. Letting your body feel what it feels. Letting the rain fall. Letting the day be what it is.

That doesn’t mean giving up.

It means surrendering to what’s real. It means allowing your body, your mind, and your spirit to experience what they need to experience.

I don’t always trust this part. Some days it feels like nothing is holding me at all. Like I am just floating through sickness and grief with no ground beneath my feet.

But when I let myself stop long enough, I notice there is something underneath all of it that hasn’t given way.

Lately, there has been a part of me that feels more rooted than I expected.

It doesn’t feel like strength. It feels more like being close to the ground. Heavy in my body. Still. Not going anywhere.

When I let myself rest there, something softens. I don’t have to figure anything out. I don’t have to push or fix or make meaning of the day.

Without that steadiness, nothing else works. Not endurance. Not clarity. Not the ability to keep going.

I’ve realized that what’s holding me is love.

At first, it was the love I have for Gary. That love didn’t disappear when he died. It settled into me. And over time, I’ve had to learn how to let that same care turn inward.

I didn’t want Gary’s death to be the thing that broke me. So I started trying to take care of myself the way he took care of me. Slowly. Imperfectly. One sick day at a time.

That care has become a kind of foundation.

And from there, things can grow. Not quickly. Not easily. But steadily.

My body has carried a lot.

It has carried love.
It has carried loss.
It has carried grief.
And sometimes, it carries illness.

And still, it breathes.

Still, life moves slowly and quietly through it.

Even here.

---

If you’re reading this and thinking, yes, this is me, I want you to know you don’t have to figure everything out at once.

I created a free eBook called Exploring the Widowed Life for moments like this.

It’s a quiet guide for people grieving the death of a partner. It walks through six areas where grief often shows up, like identity, relationships, daily life, and the future. This isn’t a checklist or a program. It’s meant to be a companion for the days when everything feels broken and you don’t know where to begin.

Each section includes simple reflections and soft questions to help you feel seen and supported. If you’re feeling lost in your grief, this guide might help you notice where the hurt is loudest and where care and steadiness might slowly take root.

You can download it for free here:

Snowshoes, Uneven Ground, and Learning as I Go

The Many Lessons a Single Hour Illustrated for Me

That first step felt awkward. The ground was uneven. I couldn’t see what was supporting me, but I could feel it. A single hour on snowshoes became a reminder of what it can be like to learn how to walk again after loss.

This weekend, I tried something new.
I went walking in snowshoes.

Before we even started, I was bundled in layers. Snow pants. Thermal pants. Sweater. Hooded jacket. Hat. Gloves. So many layers that bending over felt almost impossible. Putting on the snowshoes was awkward. Tightening the straps was harder than I expected. I couldn’t get them right, and I had to ask for help. That felt uncomfortable. I like knowing what I’m doing. I like feeling capable and taking care of myself. But there I was, standing in the cold, needing help just to get started.

Once we began walking, the awkwardness didn’t disappear. Snowshoes feel strange. My steps were so much wider than regular hiking. My body moved differently. We walked in a single file line through the woods in Northwest Indiana, following a narrow path that wound through trees, up small hills, and back down again. I didn’t choose the path. I just followed it. Step over step. Step over step. 

At times, it felt scary. The ground was uneven. The hills were steeper than they looked. I was hyper aware of where I placed my feet. Thankfully, there were spikes on the underside of the snowshoes. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel them. They gave me traction, and where I should have slipped, I didn’t. They didn’t take away the fear, but they helped me keep moving.

The air was crisp and cold at first. As we walked, my body warmed up. I started to loosen my coat. I took off my gloves for a bit and let the cool air in. Somewhere along the way, the cold turned into energy. What had felt stiff at the beginning began to feel more natural.

Afterward, it struck me how many lessons that single hour held.

For widows who are early in grief, life can feel just like that first part of the walk. Everything is heavy. You are wrapped in layers you didn’t ask for. Simple things take effort. You may feel clumsy in your own body and unsure of every step. You may need help just to begin, and that can feel painful and exposing.

Becoming a widow means learning how to move in a world you did not choose. The terrain is unfamiliar. The path feels narrow. You can only see what is directly in front of you. Following the path is enough for now.

For widows who are further along, the walk may feel different. The ground is still uneven, but you know how to place your feet. You’ve learned which supports help you keep your balance. You recognize the effort it takes, and you trust yourself more than you once did.

You may even notice moments of warmth. Times when you loosen the layers. Times when your breath comes easier. Times when life feels a little more alive again, even with the grief still present.

That hour in the woods was both awkward and magical. Widowhood can be like that too. It can be frightening and meaningful at the same time. You can feel unsure and capable in the same moment.

I’m learning that a single hour, a single step, a single shared moment can hold more than we expect. Sometimes, it holds just enough to help us keep going.

I don’t know where you are in your grief. You might be very early, or you might be further along. Wherever you are, this walk can feel awkward and lonely. Please know, you don’t have to take every step by yourself. You are welcome to join me for a free conversation where you can share your story and speak your grief out loud. We will simply talk together and walk together for a moment. Sometimes that is enough to help you keep going. Follow this link to schedule a free Holding the Ember conversation.

Why Grief Can Make You Angry and What That Anger Is Really Saying

Grief has an edge that few people talk about. Anger is part of that edge. It often carries the truth of how deeply someone mattered.

Grief does not only bring sadness.

For many people, it brings anger too.

It can come out of nowhere. One moment you feel numb. The next, there is heat in your body you do not recognize. You might feel angry at people who mean well but say the wrong thing. Angry at doctors. Angry at friends who disappeared. Angry at how unfair all of this is. Some days the anger even turns toward your person for leaving, or toward yourself for not doing something differently.

It can feel sharp and confusing. And it can be hard to admit.

Anger is not talked about much when it comes to grief. The world often expects sorrow to look quiet and gentle. But grief is not tidy. It has an edge. Anger shows up because love has nowhere to go. It rises when love collides with the truth that nothing can change what has happened. It is one way the body tries to make sense of something that makes no sense at all.

Sometimes anger feels easier than despair. It has energy when everything else feels heavy and still. It can make you feel alive again, even when the feeling burns. You might slam a door. You might shout into the air. You might cry so hard it feels like rage. None of this means you are broken. It means you are responding to something that is too big to hold quietly.

Underneath anger is pain. Deep, aching pain. The kind that feels impossible to touch. For a while, anger protects that pain. It creates space between you and what feels unbearable. It acts like a shield when your heart is still too raw.

I think anger often shows up because what we don’t want to feel yet is fear. Fear of what life looks like now. Fear of how much has changed. Fear of what it means to keep going without them.

As grief changes shape, that shield can begin to soften. Not all at once. Not on a schedule. You may start to notice what the anger has been guarding. Often it is love. Or regret. Or the longing for just one more day.

There is no need to rush any of this. Anger rises and falls in its own time. When it shows up, it can help to notice it without turning it inward. Some people feel it in their chest. Others feel it in their shoulders or jaw. Simply noticing where it lives can be enough for the moment. Sometimes it helps to say the words out loud. To name what was never said. To let the body release what it has been holding.

You may hear people say that anger is not helpful. Or that you should let it go. They often mean well. But this kind of loss changes a person. Letting go is not something you decide once. It happens slowly, as the heart learns how to live with what cannot be fixed.

It can help to remember this. Anger is not the opposite of love. It is often proof of it. You are angry because someone mattered. Because love this deep changes everything. The world feels off balance without them. Anger is one way the heart pushes back. It says this should not have happened. It says love like this should not end in silence.

Over time, the edges of anger may soften. It may not disappear, but it no longer takes over every breath. It becomes one feeling among many. Some days the heat still comes. And some days there is a little more room for sorrow, memory, or even calm. That shift is not something you force. It comes when you stop fighting your own heart.

If anger is part of your grief right now, you are not wrong. You are not weak. You make sense. You are responding to love and loss in the only ways your body knows how. You do not have to understand it today. It is enough to know that you make sense, even here.

Finding Glimmers of Joy Without Feeling Guilty

Sometimes joy slips in after loss and leaves guilt in its wake.

There are moments after loss when joy shows up quietly and catches you off guard. You might notice yourself smiling and then suddenly stop. You might laugh at something small and feel a wave of guilt rush in right after. It can feel wrong to enjoy anything when the person you love is not here to share it. You might wonder what it means. You might worry what others will think. You might question yourself for even feeling it at all.

Many widowed people talk about this as one of the most confusing parts of grief. You expect the sadness. You expect the anger. You expect the emptiness. But no one really prepares you for how hard it can be when something light slips in. Life keeps moving around you while your world has stopped. A bird singing. A familiar smell. A song you were not ready for. A moment of laughter that feels both comforting and unbearable at the same time.

At first, it can feel safer to push those moments away. You turn off the music. You quiet your laugh. You change the subject. It hurts to feel something good when so much hurts already. Joy can feel like it belongs to a different life. A life you no longer recognize as your own.

But grief and joy are not opposites. They live side by side. They can exist in the same moment. Sometimes even in the same breath.

Joy does not mean forgetting. It does not mean your pain is gone. It does not mean your love is fading. It simply means your heart is still alive. Grief and joy often arrive tangled together. A smile followed by tears. A warm memory that brings an ache. A soft moment that reminds you of what is missing. None of this is a sign you are doing grief wrong. It is a sign that love is still moving through you.

Sometimes I notice that when those small glimmers are allowed to stay for just a moment, something softens. Not everything. Just something. Maybe the chest loosens a bit. Maybe the mind grows quiet for a second. The moment passes, but the body remembers. These flashes of light are not disrespectful to grief. They are one of the ways love keeps finding you.

Over time, joy may begin to feel less like betrayal and more like belonging. It might show up in unexpected ways. A new connection. The smell of their favorite food. An ordinary day that ends without tears. These moments do not mean you are fixed or healed. They simply mean you are human. A human learning how to carry pain and life at the same time.

The person you love loves your joy. They always have. They laugh with you. They want your life to be full. Letting joy in now is not leaving them behind. It is carrying what they gave you forward. Love never wanted to live only in sorrow. It wants to live through you.

There will still be days when joy feels far away. That is part of this too. Grief does not disappear. It shifts. What matters is making room for whatever shows up. The ache. The tears. The laughter. The quiet. None of these cancel the others. They all belong.

You do not have to earn the right to feel okay for a moment. You do not need permission to smile or to breathe deeply. If joy shows up, even briefly, it does not mean anything is wrong. It may simply mean your love is still here, finding its way, one small glimmer at a time.

The Difference Between Grief and Added Suffering

Grief is heavy enough on its own.

It settles into your chest and your bones. It brings sadness, anger, fear, and deep tiredness. It moves through your days in waves that rise and fall without warning. Some days you can breathe. Other days it feels like too much.

And then, often, something else shows up beside the grief.

A quiet voice that says you should be doing better by now.

That you cry too much.

That other people seem stronger than you.

Those voices are not grief.

They are added suffering.

Grief is the natural response to love.

It exists because you love deeply. That love still matters. Grief does not follow rules or timelines. It comes and goes in its own way. As painful as it is, grief is honest. It asks only to be felt.

Added suffering comes from judgment.

It shows up when pain is layered with guilt, shame, or comparison. It tells you that you are failing at grief. That you should look different by now. That your feelings are too much for others. It fills the space where kindness toward yourself could live.

Often, this added suffering begins with other people.

People who care may try to help, but their words can land hard. They tell you to stay busy. To be grateful. To focus on the good memories. Over time, you may start to wonder if they are right. You may begin to doubt your own grief. That doubt becomes another weight you were never meant to carry.

Grief needs space.

Added suffering closes that space.

Sometimes the difference between the two is quiet but clear.

When you cry because you miss your person, that is grief.

When you tell yourself to stop crying, that is added suffering.

When you feel lonely because no one understands, that is grief.

When you believe you are too much, that is added suffering.

I have noticed that simply seeing this difference can soften something inside. Not because the pain goes away, but because the fighting eases. You do not have to judge what you feel. You can let your heart ache. You can let the tears come. You can let the silence hold you.

There is nothing wrong with your grief.

There is nothing to fix.

When the extra pressure loosens, the body often responds first. The breath deepens. The shoulders drop. You feel yourself settle back into your own skin. Grief is still there, but it is not being pushed or argued with. You are learning how to live with it, one moment at a time.

The world may still move too fast. People may still say things that sting. You may still feel out of step. But you get to decide what belongs in your heart and what does not. You get to set down what was never yours to carry.

Over time, some of the added suffering falls away.

What remains is love.

And a heart that keeps beating, even while it hurts.

If you find yourself tangled in expectations or guilt, you do not have to sort that out alone. Sometimes it helps to sit with someone who understands and can hold the space with you. I offer a free Holding the Ember conversation if that feels supportive. No fixing. Just room to breathe and be real.

You are not doing grief wrong.

You are loving someone who still matters. 💜💚

When the People Closest to You Don’t Understand Your Grief

One of the hardest parts of grief is realizing that some of the people you counted on the most cannot meet you where you are. You expect them to know how to show up, to say something that helps, to stay close. Some try and miss. Some pull away. Others tell you things that make the ache worse. You might start to wonder if you are asking too much, or if something about your grief makes people uncomfortable.

It is confusing because love and disappointment sit side by side. These are people who cared about you before the loss. They may still care, but they do not know this version of you — the one who cries without warning, the one who cancels plans, the one who no longer fits into small talk. The truth is that grief changes not only you, but every relationship around you.

Most people want to help, but they live in a culture that avoids pain. They do not know how to listen without fixing, how to stay when tears start, or how to make space for silence. They may say things that sound comforting but land like stones: “He wouldn’t want you to be sad.” “You are strong.” “At least you had time to say goodbye.” None of these words touch the truth of what you are living.

You begin to learn that you cannot teach someone to understand what they have never lived. You can try to explain, but real understanding comes from shared experience, and not everyone will be able to go there with you. That realization can feel like another loss, a second wave of grief layered over the first.

It is okay to step back. Protecting your peace does not mean shutting people out forever. It means recognizing what your heart can handle right now. You may find that time with certain friends leaves you more drained than comforted. You may feel yourself pulling away from people who once felt like home. This is not unkindness. It is survival.

You can start to lower the expectations that keep hurting you. Some people will never be able to offer the kind of support you hoped for, and accepting that truth can be painful but freeing. When you stop waiting for others to understand, you open space to find connection in new places… maybe with other widowed people, or with someone who simply listens without trying to make you feel better.

You might also notice that some relationships deepen in surprising ways. Someone you barely knew before may suddenly show up with quiet steadiness. A friend you thought was distant might send a message that lands exactly right. Let those moments matter. They are reminders that even when understanding feels rare, connection can still grow.

With time, you start to see that the goal is not to make everyone understand your grief. The goal is to surround yourself with people who respect it. You learn to measure relationships not by how much someone says the right thing, but by whether you feel safe being honest in their presence.

When that happens, the loneliness starts to shift. The world still feels smaller, but it becomes more real. You begin to trust your own sense of what feels right, instead of trying to shape yourself to fit the comfort of others. That is what peace in grief often looks like — not a return to how things were, but an acceptance of what is true now.

If you are in that place where the people around you do not understand, please know you are not alone. There are others who know what it feels like to carry love and loss at the same time. You can schedule a Holding the Ember conversation — a free 45-minute call where we can talk about what it means to find steady ground in a world that no longer feels familiar, and how to stay connected to what helps you breathe again.

How to Face the Future When You Can’t Picture It Yet

When your partner dies, time changes. The calendar keeps moving, but you are standing still. People talk about next month or next year as if the future is something you can still step into. You listen, but the words slide past you. The future feels far away and empty, like a story that no longer belongs to you.

Before the loss, you probably had a rhythm to your days. You knew what tomorrow would bring in small ways. You might have planned a meal, a trip, or something simple like a movie night. Those plans were woven into a life that made sense. Now that sense is gone. The person who made ordinary days feel full is not here, and every plan feels wrong without them.

It is common to look ahead and feel nothing but fog. For a long time, it might seem like the future does not exist. There is only before and after. That is not failure or weakness. It is what happens when love has been torn from daily life. The mind cannot imagine what has never been lived before.

In those early months, the idea of “moving forward” can feel harsh. It suggests that you should be leaving something behind. But you are not leaving your person or your love. You are learning how to keep living in a world that does not include them in the same way. That is not forward. That is survival.

When everything feels uncertain, start small. Forget the big picture. Ask yourself, “What would help me get through this next hour?” Maybe it is making tea, stepping outside, or folding the laundry. None of those things fix the loss, but they keep you connected to living. One moment at a time, one small act at a time, your body begins to remember that it still knows how to be alive.

At first, you will do these things without feeling any comfort. That is okay. The goal is not to feel better. It is simply to stay present. Over time, something begins to shift. A small piece of interest or curiosity might return. You may notice sunlight through the window or hear a song that reminds you that life still moves. Those small glimmers are not the future yet, but they are signs that life is finding a way to keep breathing through you.

Eventually, the future begins to take shape in quiet ways. You might agree to meet a friend, start a small project, or consider something new that would have made your partner proud. These moments come slowly and without fanfare. You may not even recognize them as steps forward until you look back and realize that time has carried you.

The truth is, you do not have to see the future clearly in order to live into it. You do not have to know where you are going to take one more step. The future will not appear as a plan or a goal. It will appear as a series of small choices to stay. To breathe. To keep showing up for your own life even when you do not know what it will become.

There will still be days when the fog returns and everything feels impossible again. That does not mean you are going backward. It only means that grief still has work to do inside you. Those days are part of the process too. The path through grief is not straight. It is made of circles, pauses, and slow awakenings.

You are not meant to rebuild your life all at once. You are meant to live what is here, moment by moment, until those moments begin to form something that feels like life again.

If you are standing in that space where the future feels too far to imagine, you do not have to face it alone. You can schedule a Holding the Ember conversation. It is a free 45-minute call where we can talk about how to take small steps toward life again, even when you cannot yet see where they will lead.

What to Do When Food and Sleep Stop Making Sense

After loss, the basics of life can fall apart. Eating, drinking water, resting — all the things that once came naturally — can feel impossible. You might wake up in the middle of the night and stare at the ceiling for hours. You might look at food and feel nothing. The body that once felt familiar becomes something strange.

Grief scrambles your internal system. It interrupts hunger and sleep because your brain is trying to make sense of something it cannot fix. Many widows find that they forget to eat or cannot stop crying long enough to swallow a bite. Others find they eat without tasting, or they sleep all day because being awake hurts too much. However it shows up for you, it makes sense. Your body is responding to the shock of loss.

The first step is not to force yourself to be fine. You do not need to return to old routines right away. Start small. Keep something simple within reach — crackers, fruit, a warm drink. You may not finish it, but your body will notice that you are trying. That small act is a form of care.

When it comes to rest, focus on creating the conditions for sleep rather than the outcome. Turn off bright lights earlier than usual. Lower the noise around you. Let yourself sit quietly before bed, even if sleep does not come. Sometimes your body needs to relearn that the night can be a place of rest instead of fear.

If the house feels too quiet, try soft sounds — music, an audiobook, the hum of a fan. Your nervous system is trying to find rhythm again, and these small cues can help. You might also find that short naps during the day bring more relief than long nights spent waiting for sleep that will not come.

There is no right schedule in grief. There is only your body, trying to survive something it never asked for. Be patient with it. Trust that hunger will return in its own time and that sleep will find its way back when your body feels safe enough to rest.

These basic needs may not feel important when everything else has fallen apart, but tending to them helps rebuild your strength piece by piece. Each glass of water, each bite of food, each moment of stillness says, “I am still here.”

If you are struggling to care for your body in this new reality, you do not have to face it alone. You can schedule a Holding the Ember conversation — a free 45-minute call where we can talk about ways to steady yourself when everything feels uncertain.

Learning to Live With Grief, Not Against It

When grief hits, every part of you wants it to stop. The pain feels too heavy, too sharp, too endless. You try to breathe around it, but it fills the room. The world tells you to find peace, to stay positive, to move forward. None of that helps when you are standing in the middle of heartbreak.

In the beginning, most of us do what we can to survive. We distract ourselves, stay busy, or shut down. We hold our breath waiting for the next wave to pass. It makes sense. Grief is too much to hold all at once. But after a while, trying to avoid the pain only makes it louder. It shows up in other ways; exhaustion, irritability, numbness. The body keeps carrying what the heart will not feel.

The truth is that there is no way around grief. The only way to live with it is to let yourself feel it when it comes. That might mean crying until you are empty. It might mean sitting in silence and letting your chest ache. It might mean screaming in the car, or whispering your love into the dark. None of it is wrong. Feeling it is what allows it to move through you instead of hardening inside you.

Some days the pain comes like a storm. Other days it drifts in quietly. You do not have to invite it, but you can stop fighting it. When it shows up, try to meet it with the smallest bit of permission — yes, this hurts; yes, it’s here again. That’s how the heart learns to breathe through it.

Over time, grief does not disappear, but it changes shape. The waves are still there, but they start to flow instead of crash. You begin to trust yourself to survive each one. You begin to see that pain is not proof of brokenness — it’s proof of love.

You don’t have to do this alone. If you want a space to talk about what it means to live with pain instead of fighting it, you can schedule a Holding the Ember conversation. It’s a free 45-minute call where we can talk about how to let grief move through you in ways that honor both your loss and your strength.

Why It’s Hard to Accept Help and How to Let It In

When loss first happens, everything feels like static. People ask what you need, and you cannot find words. The question itself feels too big. You are trying to breathe, to eat, to remember what day it is. You do not know what you need because you have never lived this life before.

Those around you often mean well. They bring food, send messages, or say, “Call me if you need anything.” You nod, but the thought of reaching out feels impossible. You are not avoiding help; you are surviving. The brain can only hold one thing at a time, and right now, it’s holding the shock of your person’s last breath. 

In those early days, help might look like nothing more than someone sitting nearby, someone who shows up without asking questions or expecting conversation. Sometimes, you just need people who can exist beside your pain without trying to make it smaller. The kind of help that matters most is often quiet — someone who drops off groceries and leaves them at the door, a friend who texts “I’m thinking of you” without asking for a reply, a neighbor who takes care of something before you even realize it needed doing.

As time begins to stretch and the fog lifts a little, you may start to notice small needs rising to the surface. You realize the mail is piling up, or the fridge is empty again. These small realizations are not signs of weakness; they are signs that your brain is slowly coming back online. You are starting to remember what it means to live again, one small function at a time.

Letting others in can begin here… not through requests, but through allowing. Allowing the friend to drive you somewhere, the neighbor to take out the trash, the coworker to check in. Letting someone’s care reach you, even when you do not know how to receive it, is its own kind of strength. You don’t have to plan it, explain it, or manage it. You can simply let it happen.

Over time, the shape of help begins to change. You begin to recognize what comforts you and what doesn’t. You may find a few people who can handle your truth without turning away. You learn who can sit with you in silence and who can’t. This knowing grows slowly, and that’s okay.

Help does not fix the loss, and it does not erase the loneliness, but it can soften the edges. It keeps you connected to the world when everything inside you wants to turn away.

If you are at a point where you are starting to wonder what kind of support could help you keep moving, I invite you to schedule a Holding the Ember conversation. It’s a free 45-minute call where we can talk about what it means to receive care in this new landscape, even when the words for it are still forming.

Boundaries in Grief: Protecting Your Energy and Peace

After loss, even the smallest interactions can feel heavy. You might find yourself avoiding certain people or places because being around them makes the ache sharper. Some friends mean well but say the wrong things. Others disappear altogether, unsure of what to say. Every conversation takes energy, and that energy is already in short supply. It can leave you wondering if something is wrong with you for needing space.

There is nothing wrong with you. Grief itself demands protection. Your heart is doing the hardest work it has ever done, and that kind of work needs rest and room. Boundaries are not walls to shut people out. They are lines that tell your spirit where safety begins again.

You might start noticing what brings calm and what adds weight. Maybe certain calls leave you drained or a family member keeps pushing you to “move on.” Listening to your body’s response helps you see where a boundary might help. It could sound like, “I’m not ready to talk about that right now,” or “I need to stay home tonight.” Sometimes, it means saying nothing at all and simply stepping back for a while.

Creating boundaries in grief often begins quietly. You do not have to make big declarations. You can take one situation at a time. You can practice saying no without apology. You can choose where to spend your limited energy and with whom. Each time you do, you give yourself permission to heal in your own way and your own time.

Over time, something begins to shift. The exhaustion that once felt constant starts to ease. You begin to feel more grounded and less tangled in other people’s expectations. The world will not always understand your choices, but peace rarely comes from being understood. It comes from honoring what you need.

As you practice protecting your energy, you create space for moments of stillness, for your breath to deepen, and for your love to settle quietly beside your grief. And in that space, you begin to find yourself again — not the same as before, but whole in a new way.

If you need a safe place to talk about what boundaries might look like for you, I invite you to schedule a Holding the Ember conversation. It is a free call where we can explore how to protect your peace while still staying connected to the people and things that matter most.

How Grief Affects Your Body and Gentle Ways to Care for It

When your partner dies, it is not only your heart that breaks. Your body feels it too. You might stop sleeping or find yourself awake at strange hours. Food might lose all taste, or you may forget to eat altogether. Every muscle can feel heavy. Every breath feels like work. Many widows are surprised by how physical grief can be. It is not just sadness; it is a full-body experience.

Grief changes your nervous system. It shifts how your brain and body communicate. The same systems that protect you in danger now stay on high alert because the world no longer feels safe. You may feel tired all the time, or the opposite—restless and uneasy. You might notice your shoulders tighten, your stomach ache, or your body tremble when memories come. All of that makes sense. Your body is trying to protect you, even as it struggles to understand what has happened.

Caring for your body in grief does not mean forcing yourself to do more. It begins with noticing. You might start by asking small questions: Have I had water today? Did I move my body at all? When did I last take a slow, steady breath? The answers will guide you. Gentle attention is often the first step toward balance.

If you have gone through days or weeks where you barely slept, try creating a bedtime rhythm that tells your body it is safe to rest. Turn off lights a little earlier, silence your phone, and let your mind know it can slow down. If eating feels impossible, choose simple foods that comfort you without pressure. Sometimes that might mean toast or a small bowl of soup. It is not about perfection; it is about nourishment.

Movement can help too, in ways that meet you where you are. A short walk outside, a quiet stretch before bed, or even sitting near a window can remind your body that life still moves. Each gentle action is a small message of care — a way of saying to yourself, “I am still here.”

Over time, these small acts begin to change how grief lives inside you. The fog starts to lift in moments. You notice that you can breathe a little easier. You begin to trust your body again as a safe place for your love and your loss to coexist.

You do not have to do this alone. Sometimes it helps to talk about what your body is carrying — the exhaustion, the ache, the ways you feel disconnected. If you would like a gentle space to begin that conversation, you are welcome to schedule a Holding the Ember call. It is a free 45-minute conversation where we can explore how to support both your body and your heart as you find your way forward.

Why Other Widows Are Often the Only Ones Who Truly Understand

After your partner dies, the world keeps moving while your world has stopped. Friends say kind things. Family checks in. But somehow, no one really gets it. The loneliness can grow even when you are surrounded by people. It is not that they do not care. It is that they cannot understand what it feels like to wake up every day with this ache and still try to live.

You may start to wonder if you are broken. Why conversations feel awkward. Why support that used to help now falls flat. Many widows feel this way.

There is something deeply different about being with another widow. It is not about words. It is about shared knowing. When you sit with someone who has also lost their person, you do not have to explain the look on your face or the silence that falls in the middle of a sentence. They already understand it.

Connection with other widows can be one of the most healing parts of this journey. It reminds you that you are not strange or weak or doing grief the wrong way. It reminds you that love this deep always leaves a mark that others can recognize.

Here are a few gentle ways to start connecting with others who understand:

• Find widow-centered spaces. Look for online or in-person groups made for widowed people. These can include community programs, support circles, or social media communities created by and for widows.

• Reach out slowly. You do not have to share everything at once. Start by listening. Notice whose words feel real to you.

• Honor your energy. You may not have the strength for every conversation. That is okay. Connection works best when you allow yourself to rest and return when ready.

• Stay open to friendship. Sometimes, a simple message or shared story can grow into something meaningful. Many widows describe these new connections as a form of belonging they did not know they needed.

When you find even one person who truly understands, something begins to shift. The isolation eases. The noise of other people’s advice becomes quieter. You start to feel seen again.

You might still cry together. You might still ache. But you will not feel as alone inside the ache. And in that shared space, hope has room to breathe again.

If you are ready to explore how connection can become part of your healing, I invite you to schedule a Holding the Ember conversation; a free 45-minute space where we can talk about where you are and what you need next.

When Friends Fade Away

When grief hit, I thought my friends would hold me up. I thought they would call, check in, and stay close.

But many of them didn’t.
The calls stopped.
The texts got shorter.
Some disappeared completely.

The problem: I felt abandoned in my grief. Losing him was already unbearable. Losing my circle on top of it felt completely unfair.

And inside, I started blaming myself.
Am I too sad? Too broken? Not “getting better” fast enough?

The truth is, you shouldn’t have to feel abandoned when you’re already grieving. Grief is heavy enough without carrying shame too.

I’ve learned something important: when friends fade away, it isn’t because your grief is too much. It’s because they don’t know how to hold it. And that’s about them — not you.

Still, there is hope.
Because even while some friends step back, others quietly step forward. A neighbor who leaves soup. A cousin who calls just to listen. Another widow who simply nods because she understands.

A small plan that helped me:

1. I wrote down the names of people who felt safe to lean on.

2. I let myself notice who showed up — even in small ways.

3. I tried to lean toward those few, instead of chasing the ones who pulled away.

That shift mattered. Instead of staying stuck in the hurt of who was gone, I started to see the gift of who remained.

Losing friends in grief is real. It cuts deep. But even one person who stays is proof that love can still hold you here.

And if you need a place where you don’t have to wonder whether you’re “too much,” I offer a free conversation called Holding the Ember. It’s gentle space to tell the truth of your story and be met with understanding. You can find it here.

You don’t have to grieve alone. hugs 💜💚

From Grief to Growth: Learning Life After Loss

When your person dies, the world changes in a way you can’t prepare for.
It’s not just the big hole in your heart — it’s the everyday, practical things that suddenly fall to you alone.

Bills. Decisions. Repairs. Plans.
Things you might never have done before, things you never wanted to do without them.

And every new responsibility carries its own emotional weight.
Paying the mortgage isn’t just paying the mortgage — it’s a reminder that they’re not here.
Fixing the leaky faucet isn’t just fixing the faucet — it’s doing it without the one who would have been there holding the wrench, or handing you a towel.

If that feels overwhelming, you’re not wrong.
You’re not failing.
You’re grieving.

The Emotional Weight of New Roles

Some days, you’ll feel a flicker of confidence — “I handled that.”
Other days, you might freeze and wonder how you’ll ever keep up.

Grief changes even the smallest tasks.
I remember the first time I did something “he always handled.” I got through it, but I cried in the driveway afterward. Not because the job was hard, but because I missed him standing next to me.

If you feel that too, it makes sense. Your love was real, and your grief is too.

Building Your Support Net

This is not a solo climb.
Lean on the people who can meet you where you are — friends, family, other widows, support groups.
Let someone drive you to an appointment. Let someone help you sort paperwork. Let someone sit with you while you eat.

And if you don’t have those people yet, know they exist. You can find them — in local meetups, online communities, or small circles built one conversation at a time.

Facing the Finances

Money stuff can be one of the scariest parts.
You might be learning a whole new language — insurance forms, budgets, due dates.
Start small. Pick one thing. Pay one bill. Organize one folder.

If it feels too big, ask a trusted friend to sit with you. Sometimes just having another human in the room takes the edge off the panic.

Mistakes will happen. They don’t mean you’re failing — they mean you’re learning.

The Everyday Victories

The first time you fix something on your own.
The first time you make a decision without asking someone else.
The first time you say, “I’ve got this” — even if your voice shakes.

These are small wins, and they matter. Write them down. Let yourself be proud, even if the pride and the ache show up together.

When Decisions Feel Too Big

Widowhood has a way of making every choice feel heavier.
Whether it’s buying a car, planning a trip, or deciding what to do with their things — break it down.
One step at a time.
Ask for input if you need it.
And know that waiting is also an option. You don’t have to rush.

Let Yourself Feel It All

Some days you’ll feel capable. Other days you’ll feel like you’re back at the beginning.
Both are normal.

Journaling, talking to other widows, or simply sitting with your feelings can help you see your own progress over time.
When you look back, you’ll notice that what used to knock you flat now only slows you down.

A Growth Mindset (Even in Grief)

This isn’t about “getting over it.”
It’s about learning what’s possible for you now, one step at a time.

You will make mistakes.
You will have hard days.
But you will also have moments when you surprise yourself.

Self-Compassion is Non-Negotiable

Talk to yourself the way you would talk to another widow you love.
Gently. Without judgment.

Your effort counts.
Your rest counts.
The fact that you are here, reading this, counts.

From “I Can’t” to “I’m Learning”

This shift doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a slow, uneven process.
One day you’ll notice that you’re doing something you never thought you could — and you’ll realize you’ve been doing it for a while.

You are not alone in this.
If you want someone to listen without judgment, to sit with you in the hard parts, I offer Holding the Ember: A Free Conversation of Hope — a space to say what’s true for you right now, and to be met with understanding.

You have the strength within you — even if you don’t feel it yet.
Every step you take is a building block toward a life that can hold both the love you carry and the new things you’re learning.

This isn’t the life you planned, but it’s still your life.
And little by little, you can make it a life that feels like yours again.

The Life You Still Touch

How Grieving Hearts Offer Love, Wisdom, and Light in a Changed World

After your world falls apart, helping someone else might feel laughable. You’re just trying to breathe. Just trying to stand. Some days, getting out of bed is the victory. So the idea of giving anything to anyone can feel out of reach. Or out of touch. You might think, “I’m barely holding myself together. What do I have to give?”

And yet.

Somewhere in the middle of the ache, something soft begins to stir. A moment of knowing. A quiet pull to reach out. Maybe it shows up as a text you send, a hug you offer, or just the way you nod when someone says they’re hurting too.

This is not about being a hero or making meaning out of pain. It’s about recognizing that the love you carry — and even the pain you carry — has shaped you into someone with something real to offer.

Here are four quiet ways widowed people begin to offer that love — and find new meaning in the process.

Being Present for Someone Else, Even in Your Pain

You know what it feels like to be broken and unseen. You know what it’s like to have the world keep spinning when yours has stopped. And that knowing becomes something powerful. Not loud, not flashy — but deeply real.

When you show up for another grieving person — not with advice, not with solutions, but with honesty and presence — it means something. You don’t have to be done grieving. You don’t have to be steady all the time. Your tenderness is enough.

You can say “me too” and mean it. You can cry with someone, sit in silence, or hold space without pretending everything’s okay.

And yes, you get to have boundaries. You can support someone without sacrificing your own heart. You’re allowed to take breaks. To say no. To rest.
Your presence is a gift — not because you’re perfect, but because you understand.

Letting Your Story Be a Hand to Hold

Your grief isn’t a speech. It isn’t something you owe to anyone. But sometimes, speaking your story — even a sentence at a time — can become a bridge.

Maybe you tell someone, “I’ve felt that too.”
Maybe you write a post.
Maybe you keep a journal and realize, one day, that your words might help someone else.

You don’t need to wrap anything in a bow. Your story doesn’t have to be inspiring. It can just be real. And that realness might be exactly what someone else needs.

When you tell your truth — even the shaky parts — you remind others that they’re not alone. And sometimes, in the telling, you remind yourself too.

Giving in Small, True Ways

There may come a moment when you want to do more than survive. Not because the grief has faded, but because your heart is stretching again.
It doesn’t have to be grand. You don’t have to start a foundation or lead a cause.

Giving back might look like helping your neighbor with the trash. Or checking in on a friend. Or making a meal. It might be mentoring, volunteering, or simply being someone who sees people.

Let it be true to you. Let it come from a place of steadiness, not pressure.
You don’t owe anyone your energy. But when it feels good to give, when it feels like a spark instead of a drain — follow that.

Because what you give, even quietly, even rarely, can change someone’s day. Sometimes even their life.

Letting Purpose Whisper

The phrase “finding purpose” can feel loaded. It can feel like a demand — like you’re supposed to hurry up and make your pain meaningful.
But maybe purpose isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something that reveals itself over time.

You might notice that you care more about certain things now. Or that you’re more honest. Or more tender. You might begin to trust your voice again, even in its softness.

You don’t have to label it. You don’t have to explain it. You just get to notice what is beginning to bloom — not in spite of your grief, but alongside it.

Final Thoughts

You don’t have to be fixed to be helpful.
You don’t have to be whole to hold someone else.

The truth is: grief has made you more human, not less. And when you reach out, in any way that’s real, you offer the kind of support only someone who has been through it can give.

Maybe you say “me too.”
Maybe you offer a smile.
Maybe you just listen.

And maybe, in doing so, you start to feel something stir in you.
A sense that you still matter.
That your story matters.
That you are still here, carrying love.

And that love — it still has work to do.

💜💚

Becoming Ready for More

An Invitation to Let Life Hold Possibility Again

After your person dies, time doesn’t just stop. It splinters. The future, once filled with birthdays or vacations or growing old together, can feel like a wall you didn’t choose. A vast blank space. A question you never wanted to answer.

Maybe you used to picture things. A retirement together. A kitchen remodel. A silly bucket list. Now you might not picture anything at all. Not because you don’t want to — but because the person you pictured it with is gone.

But even inside the ache, something quieter begins. A flicker. A wondering. Not for what used to be. But for what still might be.

This isn’t about rushing. It’s not about fixing your life or being “over it.” It’s about noticing the parts of you that still long for more. The parts that whisper, what now? The parts that want something good again — even in the shadow of what’s been lost.

Here are four tender ways widowed people begin to move toward the future — not all at once, not with certainty, but with a soft kind of courage.

Letting Yourself Picture Something

For a long time, the future might feel like a threat. Or a test you didn’t study for. Just hearing the word future might make your stomach turn.

But even if you’re not planning anything yet, there’s something brave about stopping the shutdown. About letting in a single thought like, maybe.

Maybe there’s a morning you want to wake up to. Maybe there’s a place you want to visit. Maybe there’s a feeling you miss that you’d welcome back.

Letting yourself imagine again is not betrayal. It’s not forgetting. It’s not letting go. It’s simply a way of remembering that you are still here — and your life still matters.

Some visions may be blurry. That’s okay. The blurry ones count too.

Setting Goals That Feel Like Care

Grief makes small things feel huge. Dishes. Phone calls. Getting out of bed. So the idea of setting goals might feel like pressure you don’t need.

But goals don’t have to be big or public. They don’t have to be anything anyone else sees.

Maybe your goal is to go outside every day. To drink water. To write one sentence. Maybe it’s to brush your teeth before noon.

These are not checkboxes. They’re kindnesses. They’re ways of tending to your life when everything feels unfamiliar.

Over time, your goals might grow. You might take a class. Join something. Organize a closet. Rearrange your space. But even then — it’s not about fixing yourself.

It’s about being present with yourself. Listening. Creating rhythm in a life that feels like noise.

There’s no gold star. No list to measure yourself against. Only this: care, given gently and without demand.

Letting Dreams Come Closer

One day, something might rise inside you that’s bigger than a task. It might feel like a dream.

Maybe it’s an old one. Maybe it’s new. Maybe it’s shaped by who you are now — someone who knows what loss has taken, and what love has left behind.

Dreaming after loss is vulnerable. You might feel unsure. You might wonder, who am I to want anything again?

But dreaming doesn’t erase your grief. It honors your aliveness.

Maybe you dream of travel. Of building something. Of love again, in some form. Maybe you dream of peace. Or purpose. Or being surprised by joy.

There’s no rule that says grief and dreaming can’t live side by side. In fact, they often do.

Because even hearts that are broken open can hold hope.

Allowing Joy to Have a Place

At first, joy can feel dangerous. Too bright. Too loud. Too soon.

You might pull back from things that once made you smile. You might cancel plans just to avoid the ache of showing up without your person.

That makes sense. Joy is risky when your heart has been through so much.

But then — a shift. A laugh that escapes before you can stop it. A sunset that holds your gaze. A moment you plan and don’t regret.

Let it happen. Let joy tiptoe in.

Not because everything is better. But because even now, you are allowed to feel light.

Joy doesn’t cancel your grief. It keeps you company.

Maybe joy looks like a playlist. Or a hot meal. Or a walk with someone who listens well. Maybe it’s saying yes to something small — and not feeling guilty about it.

Joy might feel complicated. Let it. You don’t have to hold it perfectly. You just have to let it breathe.

A Quiet Permission

There is no clear beginning to whatever comes next.

There is no checklist that says, Now you’re ready.

But when you notice a flicker of possibility… when you picture something, or plan something, or smile at something again… that counts.

It means you’re still here. It means you’re carrying your love forward.

Not leaving it behind. Carrying it.

Whatever life holds from this point on, it’s yours. It doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be brave. It just has to be real.

The path might still be foggy. You don’t have to see the whole thing.

You just have to take the next true step.

And when it appears, take it.

One breath.
One choice.
One sacred inch of future at a time.

💜💚

Staying Here

The Quiet Power of Living One Moment at a Time

After someone you love dies, time gets strange. Mornings hurt. Nights stretch. Even brushing your teeth can feel impossible. The world seems to spin forward while you stay stuck in the ache.

And yet, you’re still here. Still breathing. Still waking up.

Being present after loss isn’t about pretending to be okay. It isn’t about moving on or being grateful all the time. It’s about learning how to stay. Stay with yourself. Stay in your body. Stay in your life, even when it’s heavy with sorrow.

This part of grief isn’t loud. It’s not something most people notice. But it matters. Because presence—real presence, even in short glimpses—is how you begin to steady yourself again. It’s how you start to feel your own life beneath the fog.

Here are some of the quiet places where presence can begin to show up.

The Ordinary as Anchor

When everything has been upended, the smallest acts can become lifelines. Making coffee. Letting the dog out. Folding a towel. There’s nothing glamorous about it, but there’s something grounding.

These simple rhythms don’t erase grief, but they remind your body that you're still here. And that matters.

If your days feel chaotic or shapeless, that’s normal. Grief scrambles your sense of time. But even one tiny rhythm—brushing your teeth in the morning, lighting a candle at night—can begin to shape the edges of your day. You don’t have to do everything. You just have to begin.

Letting Light In, Even When It Feels Wrong

There might come a moment—maybe just one—when something makes you smile. A song. A breeze. A child’s laughter. And then, almost immediately, guilt steps in.

How can I feel joy when they’re gone?

But joy is not betrayal. It’s a sign that you’re alive.

You can feel joy and still miss them. You can laugh and still love them. Grief and gladness are not opposites. They can live side by side. Let that moment of light land. Don’t chase it. But don’t block it either. Let it be what it is—a moment.

Creating Rhythms That Reflect Who You Are Now

There is quiet strength in choosing something. In deciding how your day begins or ends. In picking a small ritual and making it yours.

Light a candle. Write one sentence in a journal. Make the same breakfast every morning. Tend a plant. Play a song. These are not routines for productivity. They are choices that remind you of who you are becoming.

If a full routine feels like too much, try asking your body what it needs. Movement? Stillness? Warmth? Rest? Then give it that, just once. Just enough.

These aren’t rules. They’re invitations.

Soothing the Overwhelm in Your Body

Grief doesn’t just live in your heart. It lives in your nervous system. It tightens your muscles. Speeds up your breath. Floods your brain with alarms.

This is your body trying to protect you.

Sometimes, presence looks like taking a deep breath and placing a hand on your chest. Or wrapping yourself in a blanket. Or putting your feet flat on the ground and feeling gravity hold you.

You don’t have to be calm all the time. You just need enough steadiness to keep going. Tiny practices of self-soothing can help remind your body that, for this moment, you are safe enough to be here.

Presence Isn’t a Performance

You don’t have to be grateful. You don’t have to feel peaceful. You don’t have to fall in love with your life right now.

But if you can notice this moment—and stay with yourself inside it—that’s presence.

Some days you’ll feel more here. Some days you’ll feel far away, like you’re watching life through a window. That’s grief too.

What matters is returning. Not perfectly. Just gently. Returning to your breath. Your body. Your day.

When you stay with yourself, you’re saying: I am worth showing up for.

And that is a powerful act of love.

Questions to Sit With

• What part of my day feels most grounding—and what tends to knock me off center?

• Is there a simple ritual I could try, just once today?

• Have I noticed any moment of peace or warmth lately, even a flicker?

• What does my body feel like when I’m overwhelmed—and what helps me soften just a little?

• Is there a sound, texture, or scent that brings me even a small sense of safety?

• Can I name a moment this week when I felt present, even briefly?

💜💚