This week was one of those that humbles you to your knees. It started with a stomach virus, the kind that doesn’t care about your to-do list, your work meetings, or the toddler waiting at your bedside asking for snacks. The kind that strips you down to survival mode. And when you’re a mom who doesn’t have a mom to call, the loneliness hits even harder. There’s something uniquely brutal about being sick when you’re the one everyone else depends on. I kept thinking how much I would have given for a simple, “Do you need me to come over?” or even just a “Rest, I’ve got it from here.” But for those of us grieving our mothers, or anyone who’s lost that kind of soft safety net, these moments crack us open all over again. Grief has a funny way of sneaking into the mundane. It shows up when you’re cleaning up a spill, running on no sleep, or lying on the bathroom floor trying to keep it together. It whispers, “This is when she would have helped you.” And that realization stings in a place deeper than exhaustion can reach. But here’s what this week reminded me of: Even when our mothers can’t be here, we still carry the way they would have loved us. It’s in how we comfort our children, how we push through the fog, how we keep going even when it’s messy and unfair. It’s not about perfection, it’s about persistence. So if you’ve had a week like mine, sick, tired, overextended, and aching for the kind of care you can’t receive anymore, please know this: you’re doing it. You’re surviving the impossible, again and again. And that’s something your loved one would be deeply proud of. Let this be your gentle reminder to rest when you can, to cry if you need to, and to give yourself credit for every small victory. Because sometimes surviving is the bravest thing you’ll do all week. -Casie Ellison, survivor

I LOVE seasons. I love how they change. Now, in Florida, I am aware we do not experience seasons like other states; however, we do experience changes. I notice that seasons change, no matter what trials or pain we face. I lost my dad on October 6th, almost 17 years ago. It was the fall. The season was changing. But soon after, winter came, then spring, then summer, and the year repeated. I was still hurting. I have a lot of experience with painful seasons, but I also have a lot of experience with healing. We cannot control the seasons we encounter. However, we can choose what we fixate on . The decline of meaning and the loss, OR looking more deeply, we may see possibilities being planted to bear fruit in a season yet to come. Each season carries both endings and beginnings. We may not always welcome the season we find ourselves in, but we can trust that it will not last forever. Just as the earth keeps turning and new life continues to bloom, so too do our hearts find ways to heal. Seasons remind us that pain and beauty can coexist, and that even in our hardest winters, the promise of spring is quietly on its way.

There’s an old story about a boy who built a raft to survive a dangerous river. That raft saved his life, carrying him safely to shore. But once he reached land, he didn’t know how to let it go. He carried it with him through forests, across fields, and even up mountains. The raft had saved him, but now it was slowing him down. I love this story for various reasons. Grief often creates “rafts” for us, coping strategies/tools that help us survive the impossible. Maybe it’s anger that fuels your energy when you’re numb. Maybe it’s isolation that protects you from further heartbreak. Maybe it’s hyper-vigilance that helps you feel safe after tragedy. These responses are life preservers during the storm, and they matter. However, what saves us in survival mode can become burdensome over time. Carrying those same tools into every season can keep us stuck, exhausted, and disconnected from life. Healing isn’t about forgetting or “moving on.” It’s about honoring what got us through and gently setting it down when it no longer serves us. You don’t have to drop it all at once. Even loosening your grip a little at a time makes room for peace, rest, and connection. Reflection: What “raft” or coping mechanism helped you survive your hardest season? How is that tool serving you today? How might it be holding you back? What would it look like to gently set down one burden you’ve been carrying? Who or what could support you as you begin to walk freely again?

I grew up playing the piano on an ancient piano that had attitude and soul. It was painted glossy black, ridiculously heavy, and full of character. The story goes that this piano, on which I fumbled through Chopin and Rachmaninov, was seasoned in a seedy bar. Cigarettes were held between the bass strings, and highball glasses rested on the side pads, leaving condensation rings behind. I really loved this piano. Toby would walk around the corner with a face full of disgust and horror as I fumbled through the notes, attempting to learn each piece. I can’t help but laugh as I think back on the sheer misery that his face expressed as I played. This memory (and so many others) is rooted in my heart and brings me directly back to Toby. Our hearts are forever woven together. Oftentimes my heart and soul become heavy with sorrow, but because I am grounded in Jesus He wraps me in His comforting love and grace. “that according to the riches of his glory he may grant you to be strengthened with power through his Spirit in your inner being so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, that you, being rooted and grounded in love may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.” Ephesians 3:16-19 ESV -Claire Cunningham

I was recently talking to a mentor of mine. We discussed how grief creeps in in various ways. One lesson I have learned in life to the fullest is that grief comes in all shapes and sizes. Another lesson is that pain can turn a wound to a scab and then to a scar. Grief is a lot like scar tissue. It forms slowly, after the sharp pain of the initial wound. At first, it’s raw and sensitive; everything around it hurts. Over time, scar tissue develops, a tough, protective patch. It’s evidence that healing has taken place, but it’s not the same as the unbroken skin that was there before. Like scars, grief changes us. It makes us tender in some spots, tougher in others, and forever marked by what we’ve been through. Our scars are a testament to our survival. Grief will come in painful waves and go out again, much like the ocean. Though tender, the tissue can tighten and ache. We survive it each time. We do recover.

Grief doesn’t arrive neatly plated. It’s more like girl dinner, or a charcuterie board thrown together at 9 p.m., a little hot tea, a tumbler of wine, a Yoo-hoo, some pistachios, and a soul-food tomato sandwich you slapped together while staring off into space. Snacking while the edamame water comes to a boil, wondering if you’ll even still be hungry by the time it’s done. That’s grief. It’s a little bit of everything at once: comfort, chaos, survival, sweetness, bitterness . It’s grapes in a plastic carton beside half-sliced tomatoes on the cutting board. It’s coffee and chocolate milk coexisting on the same counter. It’s knowing you can’t make it through a full “meal,” but you’ll piece together enough to keep yourself alive tonight. Grief is a spread of contradictions. The things that don’t belong together, belong together, because they’re what you had the energy to reach for. The pistachios, the leftover cheese, the mug with your tea bag string dangling, a sip of wine to chase it. It’s not about the presentation. It’s about survival. And like girl dinner, grief is about doing what you can with what you have, whether it looks pretty or not. -Casie Ellison

Healing. A majority of people do not find healing possible without answers or understanding of their pain. Research shows that survivors of homicide often equate “healing” with justice being served. When cases remain unsolved or perpetrators remain unpunished, survivors may feel betrayed by systems and unable to move forward. Though we often see through a painful lens, we can try to believe that moving forward is a part of healing. Taking an action step toward healing is a significant step. This is not a one-and-done moment. Once you start moving forward, it becomes easier to continue going forward. There is healing in both the doing and the being. You may not be able to do what you need as before, or as much as you want to. You may not even be able to do what you think you should do, but you can always do something. We do not have to live in an open wound ; however, we can live by finding meaning beyond the wound. Living in a wounded state keeps us in a loop of unresolved pain. Living in a hopeful state for taking steps forward can help us begin to accept the unresolved pain/wounds. Keep pressing forward.

I get lost in my head thinking about days to come while simultaneously reliving memories. Images and live action clips run wild in my head, triggering audible chuckling and sometimes random bursts of laughter. I found myself alone in a single person kayak in the middle of the Caribbean. I was marveling at the beauty surrounding me. The puffy, fluffy clouds hung against a cerulean blue sky. The sea was still and so transparent that sea creatures big and small were visible to my sunglass-covered eyes. Peace filled my heart, and tears rolled down my cheeks because God was in the kayak with me. My conversation with Him was full of praise for His awesomeness and the beauty surrounding me, but I also met Him with deep sorrow and an inability to fathom why He takes away those we love. I held nothing back as I poured my heart out to Him. Over the years, I’ve learned to bring my sorrow, joy, and praise to God because He can handle my big emotions. He wants a relationship with me, and that means holding nothing back: the good, the not-so-good, the multitude of questions, doubt, anger, sorrow, grief, and despair. I am learning to trust and rely on Him because He is greater and bigger than my deepest sorrows, saddest emotions, and paralyzing anxiety. He fights for me so that I don’t have to. He always meets me with love, compassion, and hope for the days to come. -Claire Cunningham

Working through grief sometimes means taking action. This pain doesn't go away just because time passes. Grief is heavy. It can feel like waves that knock the breath out of you when you least expect it. It changes everything, and it’s not something you can “just get over.” Even Jesus didn’t avoid grief. At the tomb of His friend Lazarus, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). He knew he was about to raise his friend from the dead, but He still felt the weight of loss . This realization gives me hope and allows me to feel deeply, too. That moment reminds us that emotions aren’t a sign of weak faith; they’re a part of being human. Jesus doesn’t ask us to suppress our feelings or rush past the pain. He walks with us through it, through the tears, the questions, the days that feel unbearable, even if that means we won't have all of the answers. Getting through grief isn’t about forgetting or forcing yourself to be strong. It’s about letting Jesus sit with you in the ache, trusting Him to carry you when you can’t take another step, and believing that comfort will come, because He promised it would (Matthew 5:4). If you’re grieving, feel it. Cry it. Pray it. And know you’re not alone, Jesus is with you in every tear, and He won’t EVER let go.