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It’s been a while since I’ve sat down to write. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t.

For a long time, I was pouring everything I had into healing. Showing up for myself in ways I never had before. Doing the work. Facing the grief. Trying to rebuild something steady beneath my feet after losing my mom.

And then, somewhere along the way, it felt like all the bricks I had so carefully laid started to crumble.

I couldn’t understand it at first. I was trying so hard. Why was I still so unhappy?

What began as a journey to learn how to live with my grief slowly revealed something deeper. Yes, my grief is enormous. It always will be. But it wasn’t the only thing weighing on me.

The reality was, my job was making it worse.

That was a hard truth to sit with. Because when you’re already carrying something as heavy as loss, it’s easy to assume that’s the only source of your pain. But over time, I started to realize that I was also waking up every day to something that was draining me, dimming me, and keeping me stuck.

So, quietly, behind the scenes I started making small moves.

Tiny, intentional steps toward something different. Something that might spark even the smallest sense of excitement in me again. Because if there’s one thing losing my mom has taught me, it’s that life is too fragile to stay in places that no longer feel right.

Her loss has shined a light on so many parts of my life, things I outgrew, things I tolerated, things that no longer serve me the way they once did.

And just like I’ve been learning to listen to my body when it’s tired… I’m now learning to listen when something deeper is telling me, this isn’t it anymore.

That voice matters.

I’m still healing. Still figuring it out. Still taking it one step at a time.

But this time, I’m not just trying to survive my grief. I’m trying to build a life that feels like mine again

A life that doesn’t just hold my pain but also holds space for joy, for curiosity, for things that make me feel alive in ways I forgot I could.

A life that honors where I’ve been, without keeping me stuck there. And keeps me gently moving forward.

This is me grieving.