Welcome to Life After Lil

​ I am coming up on a year of weekly posts chronicling the ups and downs of grief. I began writing in my second year because I needed somewhere to put it down. By then, most everyone had moved on. People had stopped saying her name. Stopped bringing her up.  And I was still living in the echo. I needed a place where her name was still spoken. Where the weight of that second year could exist without making anyone uncomfortable. The first year I had a therapist. The second year this blog was therapy of what was left of me.  Now, what I have left are memories. Pictures. A hairbrush with a few strands still caught in it. Clothes still folded, waiting to become memory blankets. Things I can still hold. Proof that it was real.  This blog has been my container. And lately, I can feel something shifting — not away from grief, but within it. What began as diary entries from the trenches is becoming something else. When foundations are blown apart, it takes years ju...

Last week the grief waves hit harder. This week, the waves were just ocean. Still there. Still vast. But not crashing over my head or knocking me back. Just steady. Something I could stand in without bracing. I went back to the empty nest — and I actually enjoyed it. We had friends over to watch the Oscar Best Picture nominees, and I have to ask… why are most of them so weird? When did stories stop making sense? I’m craving depth and heart without feeling disoriented. I did love Frankenstein. It felt layered and human.  Bruce and I took long walks. After taking his mom to get her hair done, we drove to the coast on a whim and hiked in that windy, brilliant sunshine. Standing there watching the water, I realized it matched my week. Not calm. Not flat. Just steady. Powerful, but not violent. We wandered through Half Moon Bay — crystal shops, crafty stores, little card racks that make my heart pitter patter. I love places where beauty is arranged on purpose. We stopped ...

​ This week my husband flew to Denver to visit our daughter, and I stayed home. After losing Lily, these kinds of split trips carry their own quiet layers — love for the child who is here, longing for the one who isn’t, and the strange reality of how a house can feel both too full and too empty at the same time. This was my week alone in it. And if I’m honest? I loved having the house to myself. There’s something about being alone in your own space that lets you hear your own energy again. When you live with other people—even people you love deeply—your energy blends. Which is beautiful… and also a lot. The first morning, I dropped him at the airport at 4 a.m. and crawled back into bed. I slept until 10. Stayed in my pajamas all day. Ate Kraft mac and cheese—a childhood favorite—and watched my guilty pleasure reality shows. It felt indulgent and simple and exactly right. The next day, I swung the other direction: visited my mom, lunch with a friend, dinner at Mary’s. I left...