Welcome to Life After Lil

Grief has a way of showing up like an uninvited guest — one who doesn’t call ahead, and doesn’t care if you’re ready. When those moments come, I reach for my grief toolkit — a collection of things that help me survive the next breath, the next hour, the next day. These aren’t cures for grief. Nothing “fixes” it. They’re simply what makes it bearable for me. I’m sharing mine in case it inspires you to create your own grief toolkit, filled with whatever brings you comfort. What’s in My Grief Toolkit 1. My Daughter’s Blanket It’s navy blue fleece covered in cheerful animals. She used it constantly — even when it was 90 degrees outside. Now I do the same. Sometimes it’s on my lap, sometimes draped behind my head on the couch, but always close. It reminds me of our closeness in life, how we were rarely more than an arm’s reach apart. 2. The “Mommy and Me” Candle A soft jasmine scent, a rose quartz crystal nestled in soy wax. I light it on her birthday, her “angelversary,” or on National Chi...

Why I Believe in Signs from Loved Ones I believe in signs. I believe we don’t die — we change forms. I believe death is messy and terrifying for the living, but it’s not the end. Not for them. Not for us. That belief brings me a measure of peace. But peace doesn’t erase the missing. It doesn’t stop the way grief can feel like a phantom limb, a heart turned to stone, or a bottomless pit you fear you’ll never crawl out of. On the worst days, it’s my own Dante’s Inferno — and if I give in too much, I worry I’ll be consumed. That’s why signs matter to me. They are my glimmers of hope. And sometimes, they arrive in the most magical ways. The Sign That Stopped Me in My Tracks This time, my daughter, Lily, came to me through a friend. She told me she had felt Lily so strongly at church this past Sunday — saw her clearly, radiating happiness. My friend said Lily had a message for me. She knew I had been struggling with my own mother, helping my husband with his mother, and holding the weight o...

This year, I hosted a birthday brunch for my mom. I didn’t really want to, but I told myself it was the right thing to do—something many of us feel when it comes to family obligations. The truth is, toxic family gatherings can drain your energy in ways that are hard to explain. You smile, pour the orange juice, pass the coffee cake—and all the while, you’re pushing down that familiar feeling of being invisible. The Unseen Cost of Family Gatherings It had been a while since I’d seen everyone together, and yet… it felt like no time had passed. Same conversations. Same dynamics. Same sense of disconnect. My sister-in-law talked endlessly about herself and her two kids—one of whom had just graduated high school. I genuinely care about them, and I was curious to hear how they’re doing. But as usual, I found myself half amused, half bemused by the complete lack of reciprocity. Not even a casual, “How’s the weather in your neck of the woods?” Meanwhile, my twins had just graduated college. On...

  Rebuilding Identity After Loss Lately, I’ve been spending hours trying to figure out what colors look good on me. I hold up fabric swatches to my face in the mirror. Warm or cool? Autumn or Winter? Olive skin or just bad lighting? I click through endless YouTube videos about Kibbe body types, staring at women explaining bone structure and yin/yang balance like it’s some secret code to unlocking the real me. It’s become its own kind of ritual—comparing necklines, scrolling through capsule wardrobes, wondering which version of myself I’m supposed to be now. It might seem shallow—or at least frivolous. And maybe it is. But right now, it’s easier to be authentic on the outside than to face how lost I feel on the inside. Losing Her—and Myself Since losing my daughter, the person I was has gone missing. She took whole pieces of me with her. And so now, I’m hunting for identity in strange places—like in the shape of a sleeve, the drape of a fabric, the difference between camel and taupe...

When rest finally arrives, why does it sometimes feel so uncomfortable? This personal reflection explores the fear of stillness, the quiet rise of grief, and what happens when we stop running from silence. A heartfelt take on loss, love, and learning to sit with grief. I Craved Peace—But Got Something Else This past weekend, I was craving quiet. After weeks of nonstop movement—some necessary, some self-imposed—I thought having nothing to do would feel like a gift. I imagined rest. Stillness. Time with my husband and our adult kids, home for summer. But as the weekend approached, I started to feel uneasy. Like walking into a quiet room and realizing the silence might not be safe. When Life Is Full, the Inner World Can Feel Chaotic Even when everything looks fine on the outside, my internal world can feel like a tennis match—grief and distraction smacking me back and forth. I wanted to rest. And on the surface, I did: music, a walk, a drink, time with family. It was lovely. But rest does...

Trigger Warning: This post discusses medical trauma and the loss of a child. Please take care while reading. A Sudden ER Visit Triggered a Wave of Grief Last week, I had to take my husband to the emergency room. Thankfully, he’s okay. But as I sat in that familiar waiting room under fluorescent lights, surrounded by the quiet hum of machines and the coldness of hospital chairs, something inside me broke open. I was no longer in the present—I was back in that hospital, on the night everything first began to unravel. The Night Hope Flickered I remember that first night so clearly. A male nurse knelt beside me, asking calm, quiet questions. I know now he was trying to keep me grounded—to prevent me from going into shock—but at the time, I could barely process anything. I nodded blankly, the world blurring around me. This wasn’t the night we lost her, but it was the night the ground began to shift beneath us. It’s the night I go back to most—the one that plays on loop in my body and mind. ...

💬  Remembering the Child I Never Got to Hold Pregnancy loss is a quiet kind of grief — especially when the world expects you to move on. It’s the kind of sorrow that doesn’t always get space, words, or recognition. Nearly 30 years after my miscarriage, an unexpected message from the other side opened a door I didn’t even realize I had shut. This is that story. 🔮  A Message from the Other Side When I had a medium reading back in April, my daughter came through — clear, sweet, sassy, and just as charming as ever. But this time, she mentioned someone I hadn’t thought about in years: her brother. The one I miscarried in 1996, at 20 weeks pregnant. It was just a passing mention — but it landed like a stone dropped into still water. 👶  Pregnant, Young, and Full of Hope I was 23 or 24 — young, hopeful, and pregnant for the first time. From the beginning, something felt off. Two embryonic sacs. Genetic counseling. Tests upon tests. Worry weighed heavy. And then came the moment...