Nothing about Louisiana is easy (for me). That boot shaped piece of land contains all of the immense, naïve, joyful childhood happiness and the agony associated with the painful reality of death and shattered, fractured, gray familial relationships. Louisiana is a place remembered and spoken of fondly, yet in the same breath it draws forth raging emotions. ‘The boot’ holds old friends that I haven’t seen in a decade (plus), but who can always be relied upon to show up. Louisiana also holds family that should be loyal, but who choose to hold secrets, impose guilt and shame, and repulsive prideful embellishments.The quandary is how to navigate such a landscape without negatively affecting the ones I hold dear. How does one communicate boundaries in the slippery niceties of those who have good intentions, but who are offensively intrusive? How to not become hardened and bitter by the lack of effort, transparency, authenticity, and pride? Jesus . Jesus’ gift of removing the heaviness and anxieties, the imperfections and the hurts, the failures and the shame, the sloppy messes made because of pride- He takes it all from us so that we can be joyous in the excrement. He removes the weight from our chests so that we can breathe His crisp, clean, fresh air and be joyous! He does! He will because He is Savior! Only because of and through Him are we able to navigate the swamps of emotions and the rot of past hurts, mistrust, deceit, and lies. Jesus is the way through. So, I submit my dark fear, paralyzing anxiety, abysmal sadness, overwhelming grief and sadness, and shattering sorrow. Lord, I submit to you again and again so that my heart will be transformed by your gift of grace and mercy. -Claire Cunningham

I am a human with negative thoughts. I am a human who has held onto false beliefs about myself and others. Can you relate? Maybe you have never noticed how negative your thinking can be. In grief or in everyday circumstances, the thoughts we think create emotions, and our emotions create a reality that we begin to believe. Let's read below to know where to start and how: When we’re grieving, our minds can fill with heavy thoughts. These thoughts often sound like: “It will always be this bad.” “I can’t get better.” “No one cares about me.” Sound familiar? They feel true in the moment, but they are usually coming from pain, not reality. Intentional healing starts with noticing these thoughts instead of letting them control us. Step 1: Notice the Thought When a painful thought shows up, pause and simply ask: “What am I telling myself right now?” You don’t need to fix it yet. Just notice it. Step 2: Gently Question It Ask yourself: Is this 100% true? How do I feel when I believe this? What if I never had this thought again? What is the complete opposite of this thought? Often, the opposite sounds like hope: “I can heal.” “People do care about me.” “This won’t feel this heavy forever.” Step 3: Choose a Healing Thought When a fear-based story shows up, gently choose a new one. Ask: “What if the opposite is true?” This isn’t pretending. It’s practicing a healthier, more truthful way of thinking. Step 4: Repeat Daily Healing happens in small steps. Each time you challenge a painful belief and replace it with a hopeful one, your mind learns a new way forward. We can rewire our brains. How cool is that?! Intentional healing is not about perfection, it’s about giving yourself the chance to believe something kinder, softer, and more truthful. One thought at a time, you move toward peace. (info comes from the book "The Sudden Loss Survival Guide" by Chelsea Hanson.)

The holiday season often brings twinkling lights, familiar songs, and gatherings that warm the heart. But for many of us, it also brings a quiet ache seeing an empty chair, the missing laugh, the traditions that may not feel the same anymore. Reminder: The holiday season doesn’t mean forgetting; it means learning how to carry love and loss together. Here are a few gentle ways to prepare your heart for the holidays: 1. Name What You’re Feeling Permit yourself to acknowledge the sadness, anxiety, or heaviness that comes up. Grief often softens when we stop fighting it and simply name it: “This is grief. This is love.” 2. Create One Simple Ritual Rituals anchor us. Light a candle, hang a special ornament, set out a photo, or make their favorite dessert. It doesn’t have to be big, just meaningful. A moment to say, “You mattered. You still do.” 3. Make Space for Both Joy and Tears You don’t have to choose. You can laugh with people you love and still miss the one who isn’t there. Both are allowed. Both are human. 4. Plan Your “Support Moments.” Think ahead to the parts of the season that might feel hard: gatherings, songs, scents, anniversaries. Have a plan: a friend you can text, a quiet place to step away, a grounding phrase, or a comforting object you can hold. 5. Lower the Pressure You don’t have to do holidays the way you always have. You don’t have to “be okay.” You don’t have to force yourself into traditions that feel too heavy. Permit yourself to simplify. No one grieves in the same way, and there is no “right” way to face the holidays. But you don’t have to do it alone. You’re allowed to honor your person. You’re allowed to honor your heart. One gentle step at a time.

Dear Me, I’m writing this slowly, intentionally, like someone finally brave enough to touch a wound without flinching. I’ve carried so much—grief that changed my bones, heartbreak that rearranged my future, pain that taught me how to breathe underwater. And through it all, I kept going. Even on nights when the world felt unlivable. Even when silence was the only witness to the battles I fought. So today, I’m giving myself something I’ve never really had the courage to offer: permission. Permission to love again. Permission to be soft again. Permission to stop treating survival like my only personality trait. I’ve earned tenderness. I’ve earned peace. I’ve earned the right to lay down the armor that once saved me but now weighs too much. I’m no longer apologizing for the ways trauma shaped me. I’m thanking myself for staying alive through it. I’m honoring the versions of me that held the line when I didn’t think I’d make it this far. I’m finally letting my heart know: You are safe with me now. I promise to love myself in ways I used to beg others to try. I promise to speak softly to my own nervous system. I promise to choose people who choose me back. I promise not to abandon the person who has carried me through every unseen war—me. And to my future self—the one who will fall in love again, whether with a person, a dream, a sunrise, or a new chapter—I want you to know: You are allowed to receive what once broke you. You are allowed to trust joy again. You are allowed to be held. Today, I step forward with an open heart not because I am unhurt, but because I am healing. And healing deserves love. With tenderness, Casie

Thanksgiving can be a tender time for families who have lost a loved one to homicide. The empty chair, the traditions that feel different, and the quiet moments of remembering can make this season feel bittersweet. One thing for you to remember: there is no “right way” to do the holidays while grieving. You are allowed to feel joy, sadness, gratitude, anger, or all of it at once. Grief and thankfulness can AND DO coexist. If it feels comforting, you might honor your loved one in small ways, such as lighting a candle, cooking their favorite dish, sharing a memory, or simply saying their name. The holidays are not a time to pretend you are not in pain or missing them. INVITE them into it all... Most of all, permit yourself to move through this season at your own pace. Rest when you need to. Step back when you must. Allow moments of connection when they come. Let grief come... Let Thanksgiving come. Let it all in....

In the beginning, grief hurts with every memory. A song, a photo, a holiday, even a quiet moment can feel like a sharp pain. That sting doesn’t mean you’re weak; it means you loved deeply. But over time, something gentle begins to shift. You don’t forget. You don’t “move on.” You simply learn to carry the love in a new way. Memories that once broke you can begin to soften. You find yourself telling a story and smiling first. You feel the warmth before the ache. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it loosens its grip. This is what healing looks like: not letting go, but holding differently. Carrying their life forward in your compassion, your strength, your choices, your love.  I f you’re not there yet, that’s okay. You will get there, slowly and tenderly, one breath at a time.

When you’ve lost someone you love, opening your heart again can feel impossible. Grief changes you. It makes love feel scary and uncertain. But healing doesn’t ask you to forget it simply invites you to make gentle space for life again. Letting love in doesn’t begin with big moments. It starts with simple ones: Letting someone help you. Allowing a friend to sit with you. Saying “yes” to connection when you feel ready, EVEN when you don’t feel like it. Tiny openings matter. Grief and Love Can and DO Coexist Loving again or letting go doesn’t erase your love one.  It doesn’t mean you’re “moving on.” We can move on and stand still at the same time. It means your heart is learning to hold both memory and hope simultaneously. You’re Not Behind There is no timeline. No pressure. No “right way” to live again. When love shows up in your life, whether through friendship, community, or family, your heart can heal and receive again, one small step at a time. Be kind to yourself, be compassionate, and stay open. We can heal, hurt, and live all in one season.

Sometimes the heaviest grief isn’t the breakdown moments. Sometimes it’s the walk to take the trash to the curb. It’s the quiet things. The repetitive things. The 200 daily tasks we do on autopilot. Sorting the mail. Packing kids’ lunches. Answering work messages while stirring spaghetti. Wiping a counter again because someone always leaves crumbs. And in those tiny in-between seconds, the ones nobody thinks about… we feel the ache. For me, it isn’t the grief of missing shared memories. It’s the grief of missing memories that never existed. I miss conversations with my mother…conversations I never actually got to have. And that, right there, is what grief really is. It isn’t only missing what was. It’s longing for what should have been. People think grief has an expiration date. They think it’s a collection of big anniversaries and hard holidays. But it’s also… carrying a trash bag to the end of the driveway on a random Tuesday night and suddenly, out of nowhere, the thought hits: “I wish I could call her about this… even this boring little moment.” And there you are standing under the streetlight, breathing, and feeling that sting behind your eyes. Not because something bad happened today… …but because you simply wish she were here for all of it. Even the boring parts. Especially the boring parts. In those mundane moments, that’s where the intimacy of life actually lives. If you’re reading this and you’ve had those silent sucker-punch moments, those quiet flashes of longing… I want you to know: You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not “still not over it.” You’re human. Grief doesn’t give warnings. It doesn’t schedule itself on the calendar. It slips into the ordinary. And honestly, that is bittersweet proof of how deeply we loved… even if we never had the chance to love them in the way we deserved. So when it hits you while you’re taking out the trash, or buckling a child in the car, or paying bills in the kitchen at 9 PM… let it come. You don’t have to push it away. You don’t have to “get over it.” Some love leaves a longing that lasts a lifetime. And that’s okay.

A NIGHT OF REMEMBRANCE