Today, on the eighth anniversary of my loss, I didn’t know if I wanted to write anything.
Today I’m really good.
In ways I never thought I’d be again.
At levels I’ve never experienced before.
I felt the weight of my grief earlier this week, and I let it move through me when the tears needed to flow. I remembered what wanted to be remembered, and I tended to my heart.
And today I’m really good.
Today I talked to an old friend and collaborator about a project.
Today I recorded a potent new podcast episode that I can’t wait to share.
Today I enjoyed an unexpected connection with depth, expansion, and laughter all rolled into one that felt like a wink from the universe.
Today I get to hug my baby sister after years.
Today I’ll finally wrap presents and bake my grandma’s biscochitos as I start the transition into a well-earned holiday break.
Today I’m healed and happy and living a life that truly feels like mine. Today I’m delighted to sing along to Christmas music, and I feel comforted (rather than attacked) by the twinkly lights. Today I hold him and the entire tumultuous journey in my heart as I smile and laugh and celebrate the season.
It’s a good place to be.
So I’m writing about it because that’s what I do. Because I want those still deep in the depths of their grief and trauma to know that, one day, you will smile again. You will laugh over silly things and feel excited about what’s coming, maybe even on the anniversary of the most devastating loss of your life. You will be whole and hopeful right alongside the grief and memories that will never leave you, no matter how much time passes.
I never would’ve believed it eight years ago.
But I’m glad I never stopped trying to claw my way out of the deep, dark well that swallowed me up and unraveled my entire self and life.
Hugs, love, and happy solstice, friends.
The light is returning soon enough.