Welcome to Life After Lil

Lily’s birthday week always carries a quiet weight. I prepare myself for it each year, but I never know how it will unfold. This year, something unexpected happened: a piece I had written about her—my words, from my heart—was published by The Keepthings during that same week. I hadn’t timed it. I hadn’t asked for it. But when it happened, it felt like a kind of alignment. As if the universe—or maybe Lily—had arranged for her memory to echo out just when I needed it most. When Memory Finds Its Moment I wasn’t planning to share that writing with friends or family. I usually keep that part of myself separate. But this time, it felt right. So, with scared and anxious fingers, I hit “post” on my personal page. The comments that followed were warm, open, and heart-affirming. Sometimes I forget I’m not the only one who mourns my daughter. Such a small person cast a giant shadow in our town. She truly was unforgettable. This shared remembrance reminded me that grief is not a solitary experien...

The week between Father’s Day and Lily’s birthday is one I move through carefully. It’s not marked on any calendar. There are no cards to buy. No traditions the world offers. But in our house, it’s a sacred space—a liminal stretch of days where grief hums just beneath the surface and memory becomes its own kind of ritual. It’s the third year without her. Not new, but not easy. The missing shifts shape, but it never leaves. Time Softens, But Doesn’t Erase I used to brace myself for these days—white-knuckling through them, trying to “do something” to make them meaningful. Now I’m learning that meaning doesn’t always come from effort. Sometimes, it comes from noticing. From the sound of birds early in the morning. From the way light moves through that rainbow catcher we hung last week. From the twins texting a photo of a flower that reminded them of her, unprompted. These are the quiet threads that stitch memory into the present. Honoring Without Performance We won’t host anything this ye...

The Space Between: Father’s Day, Grief, and Gentle Remembering Father’s Day arrived gently this year. Not without its ache — especially for my husband, who carried the quiet weight of missing our daughter — but with a kind of stillness. A day we approached not with fanfare, but with intention. We’ve learned something in the years since Lily passed: Father’s Day after child loss asks for a different kind of honoring. One rooted in peace, not pressure. In presence, not performance. Simple Gestures That Carry Meaning The twins, newly college graduates, took the lead — waffles, coffee, golf on TV. Comforts. Familiar rhythms that wrapped the day in a quiet kind of warmth. I gave him something small, but meaningful: a rainbow light catcher. Just a clear crystal prism, strung with rainbow-colored beads. I’d found it online. The enclosed card read: “Crystal catchers glow with memories of loved ones. Sunlit rainbows embody cherished moments and enduring lo He didn’t say much — he didn’t need to...

Some things get left behind when you travel. A sweater. A charger. The thing you swore you packed but didn’t. But some things come with you—no matter where you go. Like grief. I’m in Japan this week. A dream trip. One I’ve longed for and planned for, with equal parts excitement and hesitation. Because that’s the thing about traveling after loss: the suitcase isn’t the only thing that feels heavy. Grief packs itself neatly into the quiet moments between movement. It rides the train with you. It sits beside you on the plane. It walks with you down foreign streets. And it shows up in places you never expected—temples, cherry blossoms, vending machines. This time, I’m bringing something intentional: my travel ring. The one I wear in her honor when I go somewhere new. It’s a small thing. But it’s a tether. A symbol. A way of saying, “You’re still part of this.” Because even now, she’s with me. Not in the way I want—but in the way that’s possible. Grief doesn’t stay home. It travels. But so ...

Even soft things can fall split apart under enough pressure Being Soft, Strong, and Stretched by Love Some days, I feel like tofu in a vice grip —being gently, yet relentlessly, squeezed from both sides. I’m soft, flexible, and strong. But even soft things can tear apart under too much pressure. On one side: my grown children, still needing guidance in ways I hadn’t expected. On the other: my aging mother, fiercely independent yet increasingly requiring support she refuses to admit. And in the middle? Me—a woman navigating love and responsibility, quietly wondering if she’s fading away in the process. The Quiet Ache of Caregiving This isn’t a dramatic crisis. It’s a quiet, persistent ache. The kind of emotional fatigue that builds in the background while folding laundry, managing prescriptions, checking in on loved ones, and creating emotional space for everyone else’s stories. It’s heavy, but often invisible. And underneath it all is a truth I rarely say out loud—but it shapes ...