05/07/2026
I used to think
grief would arrive like a storm
loud, undeniable,
something you could point to and say,
there it is.
But it doesn’t.
It comes quietly
in the morning light
when the house feels too still,
when the coffee tastes the same
but somehow… isn’t.
It shows up
in the empty chair,
in the stories you almost tell
before remembering
who you used to tell them to.
Grief is not always crying.
Sometimes it’s
setting the table for one less,
pausing at the phone,
re-reading old messages
just to hear their voice again
in your mind.
Sometimes it’s love
with nowhere to go.
And if you’re a grandparent,
it’s even softer somehow
woven into the way you hold
your grandbabies a little longer,
the way you whisper stories
so they won’t forget
the ones they may never fully remember.
It’s looking at small hands
and seeing generations,
feeling both the weight
of what was lost
and the miracle
of what remains.
Grief doesn’t mean
you’re not strong.
It means
you loved deeply,
fully,
without holding back.
And that kind of love
doesn’t leave when someone does.
It lingers
in the recipes,
in the laughter that sounds familiar,
in the quiet moments
when you swear
they’re still somehow near.
So if today feels heavy,
if the memories ache a little more—
sit with it.
Because grief
is not the end of love.
It is love
that has learned
how to carry itself
in a different way.
