I’m back in Colorado this week.
My daughter—a new nurse—is transitioning off orientation and feeling overwhelmed. She told me she needed support in person, and I admired her for that.
This generation doesn’t seem to struggle with asking for help the way mine did. As a Gen X’er, it never would have occurred to me to say, I’m not okay. I would have pushed through, believing that needing help was weakness.
But my daughter knows her limits. And she asked for what she needed.
My husband and I made a promise to our two youngest children—both newly graduated and navigating their first real jobs—that we would show up in person once a month. He visited our son in Southern California. I flew to Colorado.
I get ten days here to support my daughter. To show up. Not to smother—though sometimes the line blurs—but to be present.
When I arrived, she was just coming off a brutal three-day night shift. Her apartment was messy. She was out of toilet paper. I was amused and quietly amazed—but also reminded: this is exactly why I’m here.
After breakfast and caffeine, she slowly revived. Like mother, like daughter, she transformed from the silent zombie who picked me up at the airport into a bright, talkative human. God, I love that girl. I’m so proud of her—of the work she’s doing, of her courage to ask for help, and grateful to be the one she asked.
Of course, my mom reflex kicked in. Clean the bathroom. Change the sheets. Put the place back together. But I got a dirty look for doing too much, so I took a breath and backed off. I waited. I listened. She’ll tell me what she needs—she always does, eventually.
So far, we’ve found a rhythm. Walks. Painting. Talking about everything and nothing. Shopping. Making meals that say, I’ve got you.
Meals that feel like care.
MLK Day and the Weight We Carry
Today is MLK Day, and I wanted to attend the local parade and hear the speakers. I believe showing up matters. Being present matters.
She wasn’t sure. She worried about the potential for aggression in the crowd—and she had another night shift ahead. Those are her real, immediate concerns.
Mine are heavier.
I worry about the world my children are stepping into. I worry even more for the one who isn’t here.
My oldest daughter, Lil, was disabled in ways the world rarely makes space for. And now she’s gone. The future she deserved will never come.
So I stand in her name. I show up for the one who can’t—and for the one who’s too exhausted to.
Because grief doesn’t stay in its own little box. It leaks into everything: how we care, how we parent, how we vote, how we hope.
Closing Reflection
This week reminded me that being present is one of the quietest, strongest ways to grieve.
And maybe one of the most powerful ways to love.
Presence is love.