Welcome to Life After Lil

If you’ve ever grieved, or felt like you lost yourself somewhere along the way, I hope this meets you where you are… If you’ve ever grieved—or felt like you lost yourself somewhere along the way—I hope these words find you. Gently. Honestly. Just as you are. I didn’t expect the silence to be so loud. Not just the absence of my daughter Lily’s voice or laughter—but the echo of her presence in everything. Nearly three years have passed since she died, and still, the world feels like it’s whispering her name, quietly and constantly, in ways only I can hear. Grief, I’ve learned, transforms your relationship with everything: time, your body, and most of all—yourself. Grief Isn’t Linear, and Healing Isn’t a Checklist For a while, I told myself I was healing. I checked the boxes: journaling, meditating, lighting candles, yoga. And yes, these rituals helped—sometimes. But more often, they became tasks I performed to reassure others (and myself): “See? I’m doing okay.” But I wasn’t. Not really....

  Graduations, birthdays, beach trips — and the quiet ways grief still finds its place. Each week, I write to remember Lily — and to speak for those who still can’t. It’s how I rebuild identity after loss, and reclaim my voice, one memory at a time. A Week Too Full (and Somehow Still Empty) Last week was a whirlwind—chaotic, emotional, overflowing. Yet underneath it all, a quiet emptiness hummed. One of my daughters just graduated (I wrote more about that here ), and her twin’s celebration is coming up next. Between those milestones came birthdays—mine and a friend’s—Mother’s Day luncheons, beach days, laughter, and long talks over wine. It was a week packed with joy and movement. But maybe, just maybe, I filled the days too full. Maybe I needed the noise to soften the ache—that Lily wouldn’t be there for my birthday. That Mother’s Day still stings in her absence. The Strange Logic of Grief Three years in, and grief still surprises me. There were moments last week when I didn’t thi...

Graduation weekend was emotional—layered with joy, pride, exhaustion, and something else harder to name. Something deeper. It was two full days of watching my daughter shine—laughing with friends, beaming with pride, mapping out her future with the quiet confidence of someone who’s worked hard to stand tall. She’d earned this moment, and every smile proved it. There was stress, too. The pre-ceremony nerves. The logistics. The tension of what’s next. Her boyfriend’s family joined us for the first time, and the weekend buzzed with introductions, shared meals, and unpacked memories. Then came the ceremony. We watched from the stands as her name echoed across the field. She walked across the stage, head high in her cap and gown. My chest swelled with pride—real, bone-deep pride. She did it. She made it. The joy was thick and honest. But even joy, when held too tightly, begins to fray. Because not all of my daughters were there. The Absence That Shadows Joy Her sister should’ve been beside ...

Big birthdays have a way of sneaking up on us—wearing party hats, popping confetti, and sometimes cracking open places we thought were stitched shut. A friend’s 50th this week stirred more than I expected. Her celebration reminded me of my own 50th, which began with laughter and ended in unthinkable loss. It also brought back the quiet, fierce love of the people who stood by us—who stood by you. This post is for them. And for you, darling daughter. And for all the small, sacred moments that linger long after the music fades. 🎉 Susan’s Party This week, your dad and I went to a 50th birthday party for our Dutch friend, Susan. She always adored you. Honestly, I think she dropped by more for you than for me. Even though you were always a little suspicious of anyone who dared pull my attention away, she never gave up trying to connect with you. And I appreciated that—deeply—even if you didn’t show it at the time. When I first got the invite, I hate to admit it, but my gut reaction was one ...