Learning To Live In The Both/And: Grief, Growth, And Grace
Whew! May was heavy. If you’ve been walking this journey with me this far, thank you. May wasn’t just painful…it was powerful….
Whew! May was heavy. If you’ve been walking this journey with me this far, thank you. May wasn’t just painful…it was powerful. This month held reminders that I have lost deeply and that I am still deeply alive. It showed me I don’t have to choose between grief or joy, I can hold grief and growth at the same time, strength or softness, the past or the future. I am learning, over and over, what it means to live in the both/and.
I Am Learning To Hold Two Truths At Once
There was once a time I tried to force my healing into neat, tidy boxes. Was I okay or not? Strong or struggling? Was I still grieving or was I “moving on”? Nothing about widowhood, motherhood, or womanhood fits into a clean dichotomy. The farther I walk into this journey, the more I realize that the truest version of being alive is being able to hold multiple truths at the same time.
•I am both broken and whole.
•I am both grieving and growing.
•I miss him deeply and love who I am becoming.
•I am exhausted and hopeful.
•I am hurting and still here.
The world often wants us to pick one. Be either happy or sad. Strong or soft. But what I’ve found is that the most sacred place of healing is learning to exist in the middle, where opposites touch.
This Month Held So Much
May came with its own emotional storm.
There were tears I couldn’t control on my grief anniversary.
There was the silent heaviness of Mother’s Day without the man who used to wake up early to help the kids spoil me.
There were moments I couldn’t find my breath. And yet, joy still found me.
I felt warmth through the laughter of my children. I allowed myself to smile at the tenderness of someone new. I found comfort in writing the truth, even when it scared me to put the words into the world.
This month taught me resiliency. It reminded me why I still say yes to life. I watched my children carry grief in their eyes and yet still lead with joy. They are a mirror of everything their daddy poured into them and everything I am learning to pour into myself.
Not The End Of Healing; The Heart Of It
For a long time, I thought healing meant there would be a final destination. A moment where I could say, “I’m better now. I’m done.” But healing isn’t a finish line, it’s a rhythm. It’s knowing when your soul needs rest, when your heart needs a good cry, and when your spirit is ready for softness again.
I am not at the end of grief. I’m deep in it. But I’ve learned to carry it differently. I no longer let grief write the whole story. I just let it remind me of the love that came before it.
Some days, I move fast. Other days, I crawl. The both/and reminds me I don’t have to have it all figured out. I don’t need to present perfection. I just need to keep honoring my heart as it becomes something new.
What I'm Choosing Today
Today I am choosing to breathe deeply.
To be proud of myself not for being strong, but for being true.
To allow peace to come, even if it comes in pieces.
To keep showing up gently, honestly, imperfectly.
Healing in the both/and means pausing long enough to notice what has shifted. Two years ago, I couldn’t imagine laughing again. Yet, I laugh now, not because I’ve forgotten, but because joy finally found space to live beside the pain. I used to shrink myself so my grief wouldn’t make other people uncomfortable…now I take up space and let my story be heard. I used to bury my needs, now I say them out loud. That, to me, is growth.
Love Note To The Woman Still Becoming
To the woman who has lived a thousand emotional lives in one single month; I am you, too. You are doing such a good job, even when it feels like you’re barely holding on. We aren’t here to perform healing perfectly. We are here to keep breathing. Keep becoming. Keep bending without breaking. Keep practicing the art of both/and.
You don’t need to choose between the old you and the new you. You are allowed to bloom in the middle of your heartbreak. You’re allowed to carry grief in one hand and gratitude in the other. You’re allowed to be tired and still full of life.
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