Today, grief isn’t poetic. It isn’t soft. It isn’t teaching me anything new. Today, grief is loud and inconvenient and rude as hell. It shows up uninvited while I’m trying to function, while I’m answering emails, making food, folding tiny socks, pretending I’m fine because the world doesn’t stop spinning just because my heart still aches. Grief doesn’t care about productivity. It doesn’t care about timelines. It doesn’t care that it’s been years and people think I should be “better by now.” Grief doesn’t move on. It moves with you. Some days it’s a quiet hum in the background. Other days, like today, it grabs me by the throat and reminds me of everything that never got finished. Conversations that never happened. Apologies that were never spoken. Futures that died right alongside the person I lost. And here’s the part no one likes to say out loud: Grief is exhausting. Not just emotionally, but physically. It lives in the body. It weighs down my chest. It fogs my brain. It steals my energy and then dares to make me feel guilty for being tired. I can love my life and still be wrecked by loss. Those things can coexist, even when people don’t understand how. Some days I don’t want advice. I don’t want silver linings. I don’t want “everything happens for a reason.” I want someone to say, “Yeah. This sucks. And it makes sense that you’re not okay today.” Because grief isn’t a straight line. It’s not stages. It’s not something you conquer or outgrow. It’s a relationship you learn to carry, sometimes gently, sometimes dragging it behind you like a weight you didn’t ask for. Today, I miss who I was before I learned this kind of pain. I miss the version of me that didn’t flinch at certain dates, songs, smells, or silence. I miss the innocence of believing loss was something that happened to other people. But here’s the truth I’m still standing in, even on days like this: Grief is proof of love. And love this deep doesn’t disappear just because someone is gone. So if today you’re barely holding it together, if you’re angry, numb, sad, resentful, jealous of people who don’t carry this kind of ache, you’re not broken. You’re grieving. And today, that’s enough. You don’t need to rise above it. You don’t need to be inspiring. You don’t need to explain yourself. You just need permission to feel what is real. So here it is: You’re allowed to hurt today. You’re allowed to rest today. You’re allowed to miss them loudly, or quietly, or messily. Grief isn’t gentle today. But neither am I. And somehow, I’m still here. -Casie Ellison

This past weekend in the group, many moms shared a deep and aching pain: the fear and grief around their child’s suffering, and the heartbreak of not being there when they died; the unknown. There is a particular kind of grief that comes from imagining what your child may have felt, wondering if they were scared, in pain, or alone. Alongside that often comes the quiet, haunting wish: If I had been there, maybe I could have saved them. The guilt. Even when we know, logically, that we could not have changed the outcome, the love of a mother still asks what if. If this is where your grief sits today, please know this: That wish does not mean you failed. It means you loved deeply, fiercely, and without limits. Grief can carry both truth and longing at the same time. The truth that you could not have prevented what happened, and the longing that says you would have done anything to protect your child from suffering. Today, coping doesn’t have to mean resolving those thoughts. It can look like: Letting the ache exist without arguing with it Offering yourself the same compassion you would give another grieving mother Releasing the burden of responsibility your heart still tries to carry Choosing rest over replaying the unanswerable questions You loved your child. You still do. And nothing about their suffering erases that love or your goodness as a mother. Stay the course.

You’re not complicated. The things you have been through are complicated. How freeing is this statement? For me, it empowers me to recognize both my pains and hurts, as well as my joys and good moments. Complicated grief. What do we do when Healing isn’t linear? I have spent my career learning about complicated grief and how it impacts us differently. Complicated grief happens when loss overwhelms the nervous system. Though it’s common after a sudden and traumatic loss, this kind of grief doesn’t follow a timeline, and it doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. Healing doesn’t mean grief disappears . This is something that I have sat in dark places with have had a hard time accepting. It means grief integrates into your life. Integration looks like learning how to carry loss while still living. Some days feel heavy. Other days feel light. AND both can/do exist together. Grief that’s integrating may still show up, but it doesn’t have to control everything. A simple coping guide Use this as a reminder of what healing can look like: • You can hold sadness and joy • Triggers still come, but recovery can be quicker • Hard days don’t mean you’re going backwards, you’re learning your new capacity • You CAN allow yourself to be where you are Your grief isn’t failing; it’s finding its place to rest. You’re not behind. You’re healing.

Some days, healing feels big and obvious. Other days it’s quiet, one breath, one step, one small choice at a time. If you’re walking through a slow season, remember this: God Is With You Psalm 34:18 tells us God is close to the brokenhearted. Even when we don’t feel better right away, He is right beside us, NOT on the sidelines . Slow Is Still Progress Healing may look like: Getting out of bed Making one healthy choice Asking for help Letting yourself rest Whispering a prayer Trusting the process Tiny steps still move you forward.... Reflection This week, try to ask yourself: Where did I feel God near me? What small thing helped me take a step forward? Prayer God, help me trust Your timing. Walk with me, guide me, and strengthen me, one day at a time. Amen. You are not alone. God is working in and through you, slowly, gently, and beautifully.

The new year often feels like pressure. Am I wrong? The start of a new year can feel complicated when we are carrying grief. While everyone else talks about resolutions, fresh starts, and big goals, we may begin feeling tired, guarded, and even unsure how to step forward at all. One thing to be sure of: you don’t need a “new you.” You just need support, permission to move slowly, and tools that help you breathe again. This year doesn’t have to be about fixing. It can be about coping with intention and choosing what feels supportive, possible, and not overwhelming. A Softer Way to Enter the New Year Instead of asking, “What should I change?” Try asking: What do I need more of to feel steady? What drains me that I can gently loosen my grip on? What feels grounding when the grief waves hit? Small shifts matter. Gentle choices count. Always one day at a time.

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