Welcome to Life After Lil

“Grief is memory visiting you through tears” I wrote that line one day when I realized grief isn’t something that simply fades with time. Living with grief means realizing it lingers, quiet but patient, waiting in the corners of memory. Sometimes it comes softly, with the warmth of remembering a laugh or a tender moment. Other times, it rushes in, uninvited, heavy and unstoppable. And almost always, it arrives through tears — not just tears of pain, but tears that remind me of the love and the life that made the grief possible. Life has a way of pushing us forward, and often we suppress our grief until there’s a “better” time — or until we’re alone in the shower, the car, or the middle of the night. By then, the dam has been building from all the little everyday moments our subconscious keeps cataloging. Eventually, the weight of it bursts into waves of grief we can no longer contain. This has happened to me many times since Lil passed. One of the heaviest moments of grief and loss cam...

Last week, my essay “The Child I Lost and the Inner Child I’m Now Learning to Love” was published on Tiny Buddha. In that piece, I wrote about grief, re-parenting myself, and the lessons my daughter continues to teach me even in her absence. What I’ve realized since then is that these lessons aren’t just ideas—they’re being tested every day in the way I show up for my mother, and for myself. I wrote that essay as a way to cope. Writing helps me process. Lately, I’ve been navigating caregiving for my mother, who needs more support as she grows older. My feelings toward her are complicated. When I see her as she is now—a lonely woman in her seventies—I feel compassion. But when I think back to how emotionally absent she was during my childhood, my inner child has a lot to say about it. Losing my daughter left a gaping hole in my heart. The image of a person bent over on a bench, chest hollowed out, is the closest I’ve seen to what that grief feels like. Caring for my mother has reopened...

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...

Why I Believe in Signs from Loved Ones I believe in signs. I believe we don’t die — we change forms. I believe death is messy and terrifying for the living, but it’s not the end. Not for them. Not for us. That belief brings me a measure of peace. But peace doesn’t erase the missing. It doesn’t stop the way grief can feel like a phantom limb, a heart turned to stone, or a bottomless pit you fear you’ll never crawl out of. On the worst days, it’s my own Dante’s Inferno — and if I give in too much, I worry I’ll be consumed. That’s why signs matter to me. They are my glimmers of hope. And sometimes, they arrive in the most magical ways. The Sign That Stopped Me in My Tracks This time, my daughter, Lily, came to me through a friend. She told me she had felt Lily so strongly at church this past Sunday — saw her clearly, radiating happiness. My friend said Lily had a message for me. She knew I had been struggling with my own mother, helping my husband with his mother, and holding the weight o...

This year, I hosted a birthday brunch for my mom. I didn’t really want to, but I told myself it was the right thing to do—something many of us feel when it comes to family obligations. The truth is, toxic family gatherings can drain your energy in ways that are hard to explain. You smile, pour the orange juice, pass the coffee cake—and all the while, you’re pushing down that familiar feeling of being invisible. The Unseen Cost of Family Gatherings It had been a while since I’d seen everyone together, and yet… it felt like no time had passed. Same conversations. Same dynamics. Same sense of disconnect. My sister-in-law talked endlessly about herself and her two kids—one of whom had just graduated high school. I genuinely care about them, and I was curious to hear how they’re doing. But as usual, I found myself half amused, half bemused by the complete lack of reciprocity. Not even a casual, “How’s the weather in your neck of the woods?” Meanwhile, my twins had just graduated college. On...