Eight months ago, I vanished from this newsletter. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t script a graceful pause. Life just hit me in the face.
My mom got critically ill. Not long after, she passed away.
Everything stopped, including this blog. Including me.
Since then, I’ve been grieving, healing, and writing when I could.
Quietly, privately.
Trying to make sense of something that makes no sense at all.
Today, I want to share one of those pieces with you.
It’s called: “What They Don’t Tell You.”
It’s the most personal thing I’ve ever written.
I don’t know what rhythm my writing will take from here.
But I will keep you in the loop as the book launch gets closer.
Thank you for being here. Even in the silence.
WHAT THEY DON’T TELL YOU
They don’t tell you…
how the silence will be louder than a 757 at takeoff
and wrap you like a flannel blanket while sitting by a campfire
They don’t tell you…
that your name will sound different
when it leaves my mouth
now that you’re not here to answer it
They don’t tell you…
how the world keeps spinning, even after yours stops
how the bills still come even though you don’t feel like getting out of bed
how strangers still laugh in public like nothing happened
as if something sacred wasn’t just snatched out of the sky
They don’t tell you…
that every room becomes a museum
your picture a holy relic
your handwriting scripture
and every note from you, a prayer
They don’t tell you…
that your scent clings to blankets like it’s holding on for both of us
They don’t tell you…
that I’d memorize the sound of your voice
how it curled around “I love you” like it was trying to shield me
from the storm you didn’t see coming
They don’t tell you…
to save random voicemails because one day
your name will stop popping up on my caller ID
They don’t tell you…
that something so simple as a call on your birthday
is the only present you could ever ask for
They don’t tell you…
that grief arrives like an uninvited guest
and refuses to leave
that it sleeps in your bed,
eats from your plate,
answers your phone,
and forgets to say hello
They don’t tell you…
that I would miss your laugh
like I’m chasing an echo in a canyon
or miss your loving touch
like I was still a kid,
and I’ve forgotten how to be held
They don’t tell you…
that I’d miss your cooking,
your advice,
and your soft corrections
when I was too loud,
too proud,
and too much like you
They don’t tell you…
that grief is a mirror
and when I looked into mine,
all I saw was your love
love that was overflowing, untranslated, unfinished
I never fully appreciated
your presence
until I felt your absence
crack open the sky and pour down
in a language I’m still learning to speak
A language called I’m Missing You
A dialect called Why Now.
And a silence called Forever.
Because the one thing they don’t tell you about grief is…
the bigger the grief, the bigger the love
And I didn’t know just how much I loved you…
until I saw how much of me broke
when you left.