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

Well, it circled back around like it does every year, but this time I was prepared: October 8, my birthday. All of my favorite ‘things’ were lined up. Concerts were attended; road trips were taken; movies were watched; cake was devoured, and soccer matches were won. The weather was warm and the sun was shining. Gratitude and love flooded my heart of memories from years past. I’m looking forward to taking Toby with me into this next adventurous spin around the sun. -Claire Cunningham As memories resurface, give yourself permission to feel them and also to celebrate how far you’ve come. Try journaling one “then vs. now” reflection to see your own growth in motion. If the waves of remembering rise, pause and pray a simple prayer of gratitude for both the love that shaped you and the strength that still carries you.

Grief changes the way we think and feel. Our world changed. It can make the world feel blurry, unfair, and heavy. Sometimes it even twists our thoughts into painful stories that sound true in the moment, things like “I should be over this by now,” or “If I laugh, it means I’ve forgotten them.” These are called cognitive distortions; automatic thoughts that aren’t fully true but feel real when our hearts are hurting. They often show up to help us make sense of loss, but they can also keep us stuck in guilt, shame, or fear. In my clinical and personal lived experience, here are a few examples many people experience while grieving: All-or-Nothing Thinking “If I move forward, it means I’m leaving them behind.” Truth: Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. You can carry their memory while still creating a life that honors them. “Should” Statements “I should be stronger than this.” Truth: There’s no right way to grieve. You’re doing the best you can with something no one prepares for. Catastrophizing “If I start crying, I’ll never stop.” Truth: Feelings come in waves. Crying helps release what’s been carried too long. Overgeneralization “Nothing good ever happens anymore.” Truth: Grief narrows our view. Moments of joy or beauty don’t erase pain, they remind us we’re still alive. Emotional Reasoning “I feel guilty, so I must have done something wrong.” Truth: Guilt often comes from love, wishing we could have done more. But your love is proof you already did what mattered most. Becoming aware of these patterns doesn’t make grief disappear, but it helps you meet yourself with gentleness. When those thoughts show up, pause and ask: “Is this my grief talking, or is this the truth?” You don’t have to believe every thought that shows up in your pain. Healing begins with softening how you speak to yourself through compassion not judgment.

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?