Keisa, I sat with your questions for a long time this morning.
“Is there a part of yourself you’ve quietly been grieving? And have you noticed it beginning to return?”
What a complicated, layered question to encounter while sitting in the depths of grief.
I realized that I have quietly grieved not only people and relationships, but parts of myself that became casualties of repeated loss. The woman who believed that love, faithfulness, prayer, patience, and simply showing up would eventually be enough to hold relationships together. The woman who expected certain people to always be there. The woman who still believed that if something broke, somehow it could always be repaired.
Some losses have been recent. Others began decades ago. And some involve people who are still very much alive, which carries its own kind of grief.
But your words made me consider something I hadn’t quite named before: perhaps healing isn’t the return of the woman I was.
You wrote, “Not returning to who we were. But allowing wonder to find us again.”
Maybe that’s the invitation.
I’m not sure yet what is returning in me. But I know I’m still here. I’m still curious. I’m still dreaming. I’m still learning. I’m still pursuing things that matter to me. And somehow, even in the midst of profound grief, there are moments when I laugh until my stomach hurts.
Perhaps those are little signs of life returning.
Thank you for asking a question I didn’t know I needed to sit with today. 🧡
Especially what you said about grieving not just people or relationships, but the version of yourself that existed because you believed certain things were still possible. There is a particular kind of grief in that. I don’t think we always have words for it, so we just keep moving and call it life.
And I really love what you said about not necessarily becoming the woman you were before. Maybe that’s part of what I’m learning too. Healing isn’t always about getting ourselves back. Sometimes it’s about getting reacquainted with the woman who is emerging now.
The laughter. The curiosity. The dreaming. Even the moments when something catches you off guard and you realize, Oh. There I am.
Those moments matter.
And honestly, I think there is something really beautiful about laughing until your stomach hurts in the middle of a season you never would have chosen. That feels brave to me. It's like you are showing up for yourself in those moments.
Thank you for trusting this space with something so tender.
Keisa, I sat with your questions for a long time this morning.
“Is there a part of yourself you’ve quietly been grieving? And have you noticed it beginning to return?”
What a complicated, layered question to encounter while sitting in the depths of grief.
I realized that I have quietly grieved not only people and relationships, but parts of myself that became casualties of repeated loss. The woman who believed that love, faithfulness, prayer, patience, and simply showing up would eventually be enough to hold relationships together. The woman who expected certain people to always be there. The woman who still believed that if something broke, somehow it could always be repaired.
Some losses have been recent. Others began decades ago. And some involve people who are still very much alive, which carries its own kind of grief.
But your words made me consider something I hadn’t quite named before: perhaps healing isn’t the return of the woman I was.
You wrote, “Not returning to who we were. But allowing wonder to find us again.”
Maybe that’s the invitation.
I’m not sure yet what is returning in me. But I know I’m still here. I’m still curious. I’m still dreaming. I’m still learning. I’m still pursuing things that matter to me. And somehow, even in the midst of profound grief, there are moments when I laugh until my stomach hurts.
Perhaps those are little signs of life returning.
Thank you for asking a question I didn’t know I needed to sit with today. 🧡
Ann, whew. I felt this one.
Especially what you said about grieving not just people or relationships, but the version of yourself that existed because you believed certain things were still possible. There is a particular kind of grief in that. I don’t think we always have words for it, so we just keep moving and call it life.
And I really love what you said about not necessarily becoming the woman you were before. Maybe that’s part of what I’m learning too. Healing isn’t always about getting ourselves back. Sometimes it’s about getting reacquainted with the woman who is emerging now.
The laughter. The curiosity. The dreaming. Even the moments when something catches you off guard and you realize, Oh. There I am.
Those moments matter.
And honestly, I think there is something really beautiful about laughing until your stomach hurts in the middle of a season you never would have chosen. That feels brave to me. It's like you are showing up for yourself in those moments.
Thank you for trusting this space with something so tender.