Yesterday is gone.
The big grief waves? They will return around the holidays, as they do. But today isn’t about that. Today is the kind of ache that falls in between—the quieter version.
Yesterday, I had a compassionate, unexpected phone call with someone who carries part of Larry’s story.
There was warmth. Connection. A shared softness. It healed something.
But then there are others—the ones who go silent.
People who disappear right when you need their voice, their presence.
And you’re left asking questions they’ll never answer.
I’ve learned this the hard way:
Some people vanish not out of cruelty, but confusion.
They don’t know how to hold space for someone else’s pain.
They feel discomfort and call it distance.
They mistake silence for safety.
That’s their work, not mine.
My work is to keep showing up.
For myself. For the people who do reach out.
For the version of me that is tired of chasing quiet hearts and unanswered texts.
Because here’s what I know:
- I am not afraid of deep waters.
- I can hold space for joy and sorrow in the same breath.
- I show up when it counts, and that matters.
When the next trigger comes again, I’ll meet it with grace and grit. I’ve built a life that doesn’t crumble under the absence of those who leave when it gets hard.
This is what healing looks like:
Not dragging people back into your story.
But blessing their silence, and writing something more substantial without them.