On loss, love, and learning how to live while mourning

Grief is a liar if you expect it to be linear.

It does not move neatly from shock to sadness to acceptance like a tidy checklist you can complete and file away. Grief is a shapeshifter. It ebbs. It flows. It disappears just long enough for you to think you’re okay, and then it sneaks up on you in the quiet moments.

In the car.
In the pickup line.
When I would have normally called my mom just to tell her something mundane.
Nothing important. Everything important.

It shows up when someone asks, “How are you doing?”
Not because they want a real answer.
And suddenly your throat tightens because you don’t know which version of the truth to offer.

It shows up when a kid on the swim team breaks a record and pride explodes in your chest.
Not just pride.
That mom pride.
The kind you want to share with the one person who would have felt it exactly the same way you do.

Grief is sadness, yes.
But it is also melancholy.
And memory.
And joy bursting through at the worst possible time.

It’s laughing at something she would have loved.
It’s crying because you can’t remember the exact sound of her voice and desperately trying to replay it in your head like a fading recording.

It’s journaling in the quiet hours.
Writing things you wish you could say.
Writing things you never did say.
Writing things you now realize mattered more than you thought.

And it’s this strange, disorienting thing where you are mourning the past while simultaneously planning a future that no longer includes her in it.

That one hits hard.

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Grief Makes You Raw

And Weirdly Honest

Here’s the part people don’t always talk about.

Grief strips you down.

You become more raw.
More cutting.
More honest.
More “I don’t give a fuck, I don’t feel like doing that, so I’m not.”

Your tolerance for bullshit plummets.

Your nervous system is already doing the most. You don’t have extra energy to people-please or explain yourself or pretend you’re fine when you’re not.

And yet, life keeps going.

Kids still need rides.
Work still needs to get done.
Emails still come in.
Dinner still has to be made.

So you compartmentalize.

You put on a brave face because you have to.
You show up because people rely on you.
You cry in the shower.
You cry in the car.
You cry when no one is looking.

And somehow, you keep moving.

Not because you’re strong in the Instagram quote way.
But because survival doesn’t ask for permission.

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The Spiritual Side of Grief

What I’ve Learned So Far

Spiritually, grief is an initiation.

It cracks you open whether you want it to or not.

When someone you love dies, the veil feels thinner. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, unsettling, sacred way. You feel them in moments that don’t make logical sense. A song. A smell. A thought that doesn’t feel like it came from you.

Love doesn’t end with death.
But the relationship changes.

Grief is love with nowhere to land.

From a spiritual perspective, death is not an ending. It is a transition. Energy does not disappear. Consciousness does not evaporate. What changes is form.

Knowing that doesn’t make grief easier.
But it does make it gentler.

There is comfort in believing that our loved ones are not gone, just beyond our current frequency. That they walk with us differently now. That they nudge us. That they watch with pride. That they still love us fiercely.

And sometimes, that they step back so we can grow in ways we never would have if they were still here.

That one is complicated.
And sacred.
And painful.

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If You’re Grieving, Here Are a Few Things I Know to Be True

Grief does not mean you are broken.
It means you loved deeply.

You are allowed to feel joy and sadness at the same time.
That does not mean you are “moving on” or “letting go.”

There is no timeline.
Anyone who gives you one is uncomfortable with your pain, not concerned about your healing.

Spiritually, it helps to talk to them.
Out loud. In writing. In your head.
They hear you. Love does not require a body.

Grounding matters.
Grief lives in the body. Walk. Breathe. Touch the earth. Drink water. Rest more than you think you need to.

And finally, you don’t have to be inspirational about this.
You don’t have to turn your pain into wisdom on demand.
You don’t have to be graceful.

You just have to be honest.

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Grief is not a straight line.
It is a spiral.
A tide.
A remembering.

And somehow, impossibly, it is also love continuing to find its way through you.

If you are in it right now, I see you.
You’re not doing it wrong