Good Morning my friend. ☕💜

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about grief and how people talk about it. Not because anyone means any harm, but because most people only know grief from the outside looking in. Before Nicole passed away, I probably did too.

If you had asked me a few years ago what grief looked like, I probably would have said tears, sadness, heartbreak, and eventually healing. I probably would have assumed that after enough time passed, people slowly found their way back to normal life. I don’t think I ever realized how different it feels when you’re the one living it.

One of the biggest things I’ve learned is that grief doesn’t care about timelines. People do. Grief doesn’t.

People love to tell you that time heals all wounds, and maybe they’re trying to help when they say it, but I don’t think grief over losing a child works that way. Nicole has been gone almost two years now, and there are still mornings when I open my eyes and for the tiniest split second I forget. It’s only a moment, but it’s there. Then reality catches up, and I remember she’s gone.

That tiny moment gets me every time because it reminds me that no matter how much healing I’ve done, no matter how many good days I’ve had, no matter how many times I’ve smiled, laughed, cooked a meal, or sat on my balcony enjoying the sunshine, Nicole is still gone. I don’t say that for sympathy. It’s simply the truth of living with this kind of loss.

The funny thing is that people often expect grief to look dramatic. They picture crying all day, every day. They picture someone completely falling apart. The reality, at least for me, has been much quieter than that. Some days grief looked like sitting with my coffee staring into space. Some days it looked like avoiding messages because I didn’t have the energy to answer them. Some days it looked like staying home because the outside world felt like too much work. The longest stretch was 359 days without leaving my building. Looking back now, that almost sounds impossible, but at the time it felt normal.

What surprised me most wasn’t the sadness. It was the loneliness.

After Nicole’s Celebration of Life, a lot of people slowly stopped reaching out. I don’t think they stopped caring. I really don’t. I think most people simply didn’t know what to say. The problem is that when you’re grieving, silence can feel incredibly loud. That’s why I always tell people now that if you have a friend who is grieving, don’t worry about finding the perfect words. A simple message saying, “Just doing a friend check-in,” means more than you’ll ever know.

The other thing nobody tells you is how much you miss the little things. Everyone understands that you’ll miss birthdays, holidays, milestones, and big family moments. Of course you do. What catches me off guard are the small things. The random memories. The inside jokes. The things that made Nicole uniquely Nicole.

It was so hard to give that girl heck about anything because she’d usually make me laugh before I finished. She had a way of doing that. And her laugh… if you knew Nicole, you knew her laugh. It was the kind of laugh that filled a room and made everybody else laugh too. Sometimes when I think of her, that’s the first thing I hear. Not the sadness. Not the grief. Her laugh.

Maybe that’s why grief hurts so much. Because grief is really love with nowhere to go.

I still have some message we exchanged. I can’t delete them. Maybe someday I will. Maybe I won’t. Right now they’re staying exactly where they are. I still talk to her too. I still find myself wondering what she’d think about something that happened during my day. I still wonder if she’s finally found the peace she struggled so hard to find while she was here.

And then there are the nights.

The days are usually easier because there’s always something to do. Work. Writing. Cooking. Sir Kit Kat demanding attention as though he’s never been fed in his life. But nights are quieter. That’s when the what-ifs show up. That’s when I think about the future Nicole should have had, the dreams she should have been able to chase, and the life that ended far too soon.

One thing I wish people understood is that grief doesn’t have an expiration date. I’ve heard versions of “Isn’t it time you moved on?” and every time I hear that, I think the same thing. Move on from what? From my daughter? From loving her? From missing her? Because that’s not how love works. Love doesn’t leave. Love stays.

And maybe that’s the biggest thing nobody tells you about losing a child. You don’t stop being their parent. Nicole was 32 years old. She’ll Forever be 32 years old. But she’ll also forever be my sweet baby girl.

If another parent who had recently lost a child was sitting beside me right now, I don’t think I’d have some magical speech prepared. I’d probably just sit with them. Hold their hand. Give them a hug. Remind them they aren’t alone. Because when you’re carrying something this heavy, sometimes the greatest gift isn’t advice. It’s simply knowing someone is willing to sit beside you while you carry it.

💛

Well, my friend, that’s what’s been on my heart lately…

If you’re carrying grief today, please know you’re not walking this road alone.

Leave a comment, share your story, or simply let someone know you’re thinking of them. Sometimes the smallest connection can make the biggest difference. 💜