Skip to main content

Week 128: Grief in the Midst of Joy: A Full Week of Celebrations, Memories, and Missing Lily

 

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 think of her. I laughed—deeply, freely. I felt joy, lightness, even gratitude. Those moments don’t erase the pain, but they prove this: grief and joy aren’t enemies—they’re companions.
I used to believe that if I felt happy, I wasn’t grieving enough. I don’t believe that anymore.
It’s not grief or joy. It’s grief and joy—always both.

Staying Busy So I Don’t Break



Joy feels heavier now. Grief has reshaped me.
The “me” before loss carried less. The “me” now feels more—lives more deeply. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s real.
This journey is ongoing. And I don’t know who I’ll become through it. I just hope I stay soft. Hopeful. Able to see love, even inside pain.
Because grief doesn’t check the calendar. It slips in between celebrations. It walks with you on the beach. It whispers in laughter, pauses in silence.
It doesn't always demand attention. But it never leaves completely.

A Laugh, a Beach, and a Memory



One of the most tender moments came over seafood paella on the beach.
Sunburned and sandy, we started talking about octopuses, then dolphins. Someone said, “I can’t think of dolphins without thinking about Lily.”
And just like that, her memory bloomed into the conversation.
“Lily loved dolphins.”
“You always took her to Six Flags.”
Her laughter echoed in my memory—clear, bright, unforgettable.
We used to visit the sea life park month after month. I’d grown tired of the routine. But Lily never lost her wonder.
One time, a dolphin tossed a red ball toward us. I don’t recall her exact reaction, but I remember what came next—the dolphin looked at me. And something passed between us. Quiet. Deep.

The Calendar That Still Speaks



Later that week, my daughter’s boyfriend stayed over in Lily’s old room—now redecorated.
He pointed to the calendar on the dresser. Said he loved it.
That calendar once anchored Lily’s world. Each week, she’d point to the days as I filled them in:
“On Tuesday you have school…”
“Saturday you’re visiting Grandma!”
It wasn’t just a planner. It was her rhythm. Her language for time.

The Soft, Unexpected Gifts



What stayed with me weren’t the packed events—but the soft, unscheduled gifts.
The ways Lily showed up in laughter, in memory, in stories passed down to people who never met her but now carry her with them.
I share this not just to remember her—but to offer something back. A mirror, maybe, for anyone grieving quietly. For anyone still learning to speak again.
Labels:

We’d Love to Hear From You

Share a reflection, a memory, or just say hello below.

Popular posts from this blog

Week 137: Trying On Myself Without Her: Rediscovering Identity After Losing My Daughter

  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...
Read more

Week 140: A Grief Toolkit: 12 Things That Help Me Breathe

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...
Read more

Week 136: Why Stillness Feels Scary (and What It Might Be Telling Us)

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...
Read more