Welcome to Life After Lil

​ The Drive to Pasadena When you’ve lost a child, you become hyper-aware of the ones who are still here. Their hurt registers more sharply. Their silence sounds louder. Their need doesn’t have to be spoken for you to hear it. That’s what happened last weekend, when one phone call from my son led us to pack a bag and drive hundreds of miles—just to show up. The Call It started with a phone call last Friday night. Our son, who’s in grad school, was staying late at the lab, and the whole weekend loomed ahead of him: studying, work, chores, grocery shopping—adulting. I think he just couldn’t bear it. I don’t think he even knew that when he called—he just wanted connection, a familiar voice. But as we talked, I could feel my concern growing. Underneath it all, I sensed he didn’t need advice or a pep talk. He needed to see some friendly faces. I hung up without saying anything to him and looked at my husband. He said, “I’m on it. I think we can drive to Southern Cal from Northern Cal—a six-...

Finding peace in chaos, comfort in cloth, and connection beyond words. Some days, grief brings vivid visions and a sense of connection that feels otherworldly. Other days, I struggle just to sit still. This post is about both. I’ve been trying to live from the inside out lately—choosing presence over panic, tuning inward when the world feels too loud. It doesn’t always go the way I expect, but I’m learning to stay with whatever shows up. Even if it’s just breath. Even if it’s just a nightgown. Here’s what that looked like this week. I meditated recently, and it was beautiful. I could feel the energy in my hands immediately. I closed my eyes and saw a blue sky, pink clouds, and a sense of new dawn rising within me. Then, in my mind’s eye, rainbow waves began to ripple—gentle, radiant, alive. I felt like I was lifted—plucked out of worldly woes—and placed on a soft, distant cloud. Everything was quiet, peaceful. And then they came. My daughter and my dad. My daughter an...