Somewhere between grief and healing… between surviving and living again… I found myself back in the kitchen.

Not because life suddenly became easier.
Not because the grief disappeared.
And definitely not because everything is magically okay now.

Honestly? Most days still feel emotionally draining.

That heavy feeling still shows up. The kind that sits deep in your chest and follows you around quietly while you try to do normal life things. Grief has a way of changing everything about you without asking permission first.

Six months ago I was drowning in the reality of facing Nicole’s birthday and Christmas without her. Those months hit hard. Losing your first born child changes you in ways I don’t think people truly understand unless they’ve lived it themselves.

Nicole wasn’t just my daughter. She made me a mom. We grew up together in so many ways. We experienced life’s firsts together. She was my best friend.

And grief after losing a child is different.

It’s not something you “get over.”
You carry it.

Some days you carry it better than others.

Sometimes it sneaks up quietly and somehow hits even harder than before. Sometimes it completely stops me in the middle of whatever I’m doing and I just have to let the wave happen. Other days there are smiles, laughter, memories, music, and moments where I almost feel like myself again.

Almost.

That’s the weird space I’m living in right now.

Not fully lost anymore.
Not fully healed either.

Just… trying.

Lately the kitchen has become my safe place again.

There’s something healing about music playing while I prep meals, chop vegetables, organize the freezer, or create recipes that somehow only make sense in my own brain 😂

Out there, I have control again.

And after grief makes your entire world feel out of control, that matters more than people realize.

Cooking gives me purpose. Routine. Creativity. Distraction. Comfort. Connection. Peace. Some days it grounds me. Some days it helps me breathe again.

And honestly? Going live in the kitchen and connecting with all of you has helped more than I can explain.

Sometimes memories sneak in while I’m cooking too.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about Indian Tacos. Years ago we had an entire Indian Taco day at my old place. Everybody cooking together, chopping toppings, waiting for the guys to get back home, laughing the whole time until we all sat down completely full and happy.

Those are the moments grief steals your breath with.

Not always in a bad way either.

Another memory that always makes me smile is how grumpy Nicole was in the mornings. Getting her out of bed was basically an Olympic sport 😂

So I figured out a solution.

I’d put homemade bread in the Breadmaker early in the morning.

The SECOND she smelled fresh bread baking she’d come flying downstairs every single time.

That smell still carries memories.

Food does that. Music does that too.

The other day I was in the kitchen making Chicken Shawarma for my Poor Boy’s Risotto while absolutely belting out Sweet Child O’ Mine like I was performing at a sold-out concert nobody bought tickets for 😂

And something shifted in me during that moment.

For the first time in awhile… I felt lighter.

Not healed.
Not fixed.
Just lighter.

Like maybe tiny pieces of myself are slowly finding their way back home.

Even my freezer somehow became symbolic lately.

I know that sounds ridiculous, but hear me out 😅

Having meals prepped and organized has taken so much stress off my shoulders. On hard days, future me gets to open the freezer, grab a healthy meal, and not feel overwhelmed trying to figure out dinner.

That matters.

It feels like I’m finally taking care of myself again instead of just surviving minute to minute.

It feels like rebuilding stability.

Like creating softer landings for hard days.

Of course… not everything has gone perfectly 😂

My beautiful muffins betrayed me this week. They looked amazing… and then somehow turned rock hard within two days. No idea what happened there, but apparently the recipe and I need to have another meeting.

And Sir Kit Kat continues living his best weird little life too.

A few nights ago we were out on the balcony before bed when suddenly he bolted across the balcony, front paws stretched out, tiny fluffy butt in the air, HOWLING like he was chasing some invisible creature from another dimension 😂

To this day I have no clue what he saw.

Honestly, living alone means I laugh at myself a lot.

There are full conversations with myself. Random hallway confusion moments where I walk into a room and immediately forget why I’m there. Dancing in the kitchen. Dropping things constantly. Singing concerts to wooden spoons.

It’s chaos.

But maybe healing is messy sometimes.

Loneliness is still one of the hardest parts though.

Some days I barely notice it. Other days it hits hard.

The quiet apartment. The long evenings. Eating alone on holidays. Wanting connection but sometimes avoiding people at the same time.

I usually keep the TV on until I fall asleep just so things don’t feel so silent.

And yes… I tell Sir Kit Kat random things because I know my secrets are safe with him 😼

But I’m learning something important lately:

Healing isn’t about becoming who you were before.

That version of me is gone.

Grief changed me forever. There’s no sense pretending otherwise.

But I don’t think I’m becoming somebody fake or completely new either.

I think I’m becoming who I was always meant to be… slowly, painfully, awkwardly, emotionally, imperfectly… but honestly.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

So if you’re struggling right now, hear this from someone actually living it:

Find your person.

That one safe person you can lean on and who can lean on you too.

And if you need more help, please reach out for it. In Canada and the USA you can call or text 9-8-8 for support.

You do not have to carry everything alone.

Healing isn’t linear.
Survival counts.
Tiny progress matters.
Joy returning slowly is still joy.

And sometimes healing looks less like a breakthrough…

…and more like singing Guns N’ Roses in your kitchen while meal prepping and trying not to burn the Chicken Shawarma 💜

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Thank you for being here, for reading, and for being part of this space.

We’re figuring this out one day at a time… together.

— Shelly 💛