It’s Been Months. Grief Doesn’t Care.

At some point, the cards stop coming.
The texts get quieter.
The world just… moves on.

But grief doesn’t care what month it is.
It doesn’t pack up and leave when everyone else does.

You might be months—or even longer—into this loss, and still have days that undo you.
And people don’t always understand that.
They expect you to “be doing better.” To “feel more like yourself.”

The truth is, they want the old you back.
The one who smiled easily. The one who didn’t cry in the grocery store.
They ask “How are you doing?”—but they don’t really want the real answer.

So you learn to say, “I’m okay.”
Even when you’re absolutely not.

I don’t know who created the idea that grief comes with a clock.
But I do know what it feels like to be standing in the thick of it—while everyone else has moved on with their lives.

It’s quiet. And lonely.
And it can feel like you’re somehow doing it wrong.

You’re not.

Grief doesn’t care what month it is.
It doesn’t show up on a neat little timeline. It doesn’t disappear after six months, or after the first anniversary, or after the holidays are over.

Some days, you might feel okay. Other days, you’re crying in the car because the song on the radio cracked something wide open.

That’s not regression.
That’s not weakness.
That’s grief.

There’s no finish line here.
No gold star for bouncing back quickly.

You’re not falling behind.
You’re not broken.
You’re simply living through something that changed everything.

If you still cry—months or even years later—nothing’s wrong with you.
It means you loved deeply. It means your loss is real.

Grief doesn’t care what month it is.
And you’re allowed to still feel it.

If you’ve been carrying all of this quietly—trying to hold it together because people around you just don’t get it—I want to offer you a space where you don’t have to pretend.

It’s a 45-minute call I call Holding the Ember: A Conversation of Hope. 

No pressure. No expectations.
Just a quiet space for you to be real. To speak honestly. To not be “strong” for a minute.

Because if no one else is saying it:

Your grief still matters.

You still matter.

And you don’t have to carry this alone