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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.
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