Grief doesn’t always shatter you.
Sometimes… it slowly erases you.
It comes in so quietly you don’t even notice at first. You’re still getting up, still answering texts, still packing lunches and folding laundry and showing up where you’re supposed to be. From the outside, everything looks… fine.
But inside, something is slipping.
Your laughter feels thinner.
Your joy feels borrowed.
And the person you used to be feels like someone you once knew… but can’t quite reach anymore.
That’s where I’ve been.
Because life didn’t just hit—it layered.
My dad—my strong, steady, “everything is going to be okay” dad—fought cancer for two years before he passed in 2018. I watched strength look like weakness. I watched a man who carried everyone… slowly need to be carried.
And I didn’t know how to hold that.
I still don’t, some days.
Two years before that, my grandfather passed away. Another piece of my foundation gone before I was ready. And maybe we’re never ready—but knowing that doesn’t make the silence any less loud.
And when you’re an only child… there’s no one else standing in that exact space of memory with you. No one who remembers the same stories in the same way. No one who can look at you and say, “That was our childhood.”
So you carry it.
All of it.
The memories.
The grief.
The questions you never got to ask.
And while all of that was happening, I was raising three kids—beautiful, growing, needing kids. And I did what so many of us do…
I gave them everything.
Every ride.
Every practice.
Every moment of being needed, I showed up for. Because loving them felt like the one thing I could still do right when everything else felt out of my control.
But no one really tells you what that kind of pouring out does over time.
No one tells you that one day, you might look in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back.
Not because she’s gone…
But because she’s been set aside for so long.
Now my kids are 21, 19, and 16. They don’t need me in the same constant, all-consuming way. And I am so proud of them. Truly.
But there’s this quiet now.
And in the quiet, the questions get louder.
“Who am I?”
“What do I even enjoy?”
“Where did I go?”
And some days, if I’m being honest… that realization hurts more than I expected it to.
Because it feels like grief all over again.
Not of a person this time… but of myself.
But somewhere—gently, quietly—something has started to shift.
The fog isn’t gone.
But it’s thinning.
And one of the unexpected places that helped me start to see again… has been where I work.
There were days I walked in carrying more than I could explain. Days when I smiled because I had to, not because I felt it. Days when I wasn’t sure I had anything left to give.
And somehow… it became a light.
Through conversations.
Through small moments.
Through people who probably didn’t even realize what they were giving me.
It reminded me that I’m still here.
That I still matter.
That there’s still something in me worth showing up for.
And maybe that doesn’t sound dramatic—but when you’ve felt lost for so long, even the smallest light can feel overwhelming.
It can make you cry in your car.
(And yes… that has definitely happened.)
And in the middle of all of this… I’ve realized something else.
Somewhere along the way, my husband and I had slipped into survival mode. We were teammates, problem-solvers, schedulers of chaos—doing what needed to be done to raise a family and keep life moving.
But now, in this quieter season… we’re finding each other again.
Not just as parents.
But as friends.
We’re talking longer.
Laughing more.
Remembering who we were before life got so full—and slowly learning who we are now.
And it’s not perfect. It’s not some movie moment where everything suddenly clicks. It’s small, intentional, sometimes even awkward steps back toward each other.
But it’s real.
And honestly… it’s been one of the most unexpected and healing parts of this season.
So I’m starting small.
I took my bike to get fixed.
And I can’t even explain why that felt emotional—but it did. Like waking up a part of me that had been sitting still for far too long.
I signed up for a pottery class.
Which honestly could go either way. I might discover a hidden talent… or I might create something that looks like it melted halfway through. Either way, I think I’ll laugh. And right now, that feels important.
Because maybe finding yourself again isn’t one big, powerful moment.
Maybe it’s this.
Tiny steps.
Soft courage.
Trying again… without needing to be perfect.
Letting yourself feel the grief… without letting it define the rest of your story.
Every family carries something heavy. We’ve carried our share. And for a long time, I think I let that weight convince me I had to stay buried under it.
But I’m starting to believe something different now.
That I can carry it… and still move forward.
That I can miss them… and still find joy.
That I can be a mom… and still rediscover me.
So here I am.
A little broken.
A little healing.
A little unsure.
A little hopeful.
Learning how to breathe again in spaces that once felt heavy.
I’m not fully “found.” Not yet.
But for the first time in a long time…
I feel like I’m finally coming back.
And somehow… that feels both heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time.
