This week my husband flew to Denver to visit our daughter, and I stayed home. After losing Lily, these kinds of split trips carry their own quiet layers — love for the child who is here, longing for the one who isn’t, and the strange reality of how a house can feel both too full and too empty at the same time. This was my week alone in it.
And if I’m honest? I loved having the house to myself.
There’s something about being alone in your own space that lets you hear your own energy again. When you live with other people—even people you love deeply—your energy blends. Which is beautiful… and also a lot.
The first morning, I dropped him at the airport at 4 a.m. and crawled back into bed. I slept until 10. Stayed in my pajamas all day. Ate Kraft mac and cheese—a childhood favorite—and watched my guilty pleasure reality shows.
It felt indulgent and simple and exactly right.
The next day, I swung the other direction: visited my mom, lunch with a friend, dinner at Mary’s. I left at 9:15 a.m. and didn’t get home until 9:30 p.m.
Lovely.
And my social battery had died somewhere midafternoon and had to be carried the rest of the day like a toddler who refuses to walk.
Grief has changed my capacity. What once felt easy can now feel like running a marathon in jeans.
So I kept Monday clear. Worked from home. Stayed inward. Tuesday I had a hair appointment, and honestly, that was enough interaction for me.
That’s when I felt it building.
If you’re grieving, you might know the shift. The air changes. The missing sharpens. Everything feels thinner. I can almost tell when a wave is rising.
Almost.
The ache intensifies and I start negotiating with the universe.
“Okay, Lil. If you’re here, give me a sign.”
I was in the car when I felt it cresting. I turned on the radio and asked for a sign in the next song. I wasn’t sure what I expected—something obvious, maybe meaningful.
A song I didn’t recognize came on. I felt disappointed. I tried to listen but eventually switched the station.
Another song was already playing mid-verse.
And then there it was.
The same song from the other station.
I laughed out loud.
“Message received. So you like this rappy music now, huh Lil?”
It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough.
That night I woke at 4 a.m. Another sign. Grief and sleep are complicated companions. I turned on the TV to fall back asleep. It didn’t work.
I woke heavy.
The next morning, I called my husband - he was chirpy, happy, and everything he said irritated me. Not because he was wrong. Not because he was unkind. Grief just makes my skin thin. Everything feels loud. Even love can feel like friction.
So I quieted my mind and tried to move into my heart. I asked my body what it needed.
The tears came.
And I think that’s good.
I moved—tai chi and a short workout. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to remind myself I’m still here. I sat down to work feeling dull, low energy, slightly underwater.
And distracted.
That’s another sign for me. When the wave is close, my focus slips. I read the same sentence three times. Start a task and abandon it. Open tabs I don’t need. Grief fog.
So instead of forcing productivity, I wandered.
My mind drifted to the Valentine’s Day cards I found last month while sorting through old paperwork. A small treasure that lit me up when I uncovered it, tucked between bills and old insurance forms.
I went and reverently pulled them out—the cards Lily made a few years ago, one for each of the twins.
Bright yellow. Like her.
Almost shockingly cheerful.
Inside are bold, random scribbles—purple, red, green looping into each other like they had somewhere urgent to be. Heart stickers scattered here and there. Not symmetrical. Not careful. Just enthusiastic.
I trace the lines with my finger. I can feel where she pressed hard, tiny ridges in the paper.
Her energy is still there somehow. In the color. In the pressure. In the effort.
The tears spring up again.
It’s just paper and stickers.
And it’s everything.
Most days now, grief is a small wave lapping at the edges of my consciousness. On its gentlest days, it barely wets my feet.
On a day like this, it comes in as a medium wave.
Not a sleeper wave that knocks me flat. Not a tidal surge that pulls me under.
Just enough to splash me and say, “I’m still here.”
This week, I had the gift of space. When the wave came, I could turn toward it instead of away.
Not every wave is meant to drown us. Some just want to be noticed.
I’d love to hear about your experience. Comment below💜