As I was getting ready to start my workday today, I looked myself in the eyes in the bathroom mirror.
And what immediately came to me was:
You’re not talking about what’s really going on right now.
So, I’ll start here.
While I’m excitedly growing a business and working with some incredible people, I’m also deeply weighed down by what I can only imagine is grief.
My mom’s heavenly birthday was this month.
My dad’s is next month.
And in the middle of it all, my sister and I are selling their house.
The house we grew up in. The house with layers of memories—some sweet, some complicated, some still sitting in silence.
It’s a lot.
I move through my day with a kind of numbness, but not in a bad way.
I’m not disconnected—I don’t feel everything as sharply as I used to.
Or if I do, I examine it, inspect it, try to understand where it’s coming from, and then I return to the moment.
Sometimes that takes a few minutes.
Sometimes, it takes hours—especially when I get caught in a memory loop or some story my mind is spinning about the future.
This is when I remind myself:
Two things can co-exist.
I can be wildly excited about this new chapter.
I can feel more spiritually aligned than ever before.
And—
I can be grieving.
I can be revisiting old pain.
I can question whether this version of life—the quieter, more isolated one my husband and I have built—is what I truly want.
Some days, it feels peaceful.
Other days, it feels like a long, lonely exhale.
We’ve been married 35 years.
We don’t really fight.
We’re different in almost every way—and yet, we’re mostly aligned.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve outgrown him.
And then I see how he grows in his quiet way.
I used to think we had to grow in the same direction at the same pace.
But now I know—he grounds while I expand.
He lives in the moment, while I dive into the depths of mine.
And that’s okay. That’s us.
Anyway, back to what I was saying.
I’m calling this grief because I don’t know what else to call this numb feeling.
My relationship with my mom was complicated.
And I haven’t grieved in the way I expected myself to.
Maybe that’s the hardest part—expecting yourself to grieve “right.”
There’s no map for complicated grief.
There is no clean process for mourning what never felt fully resolved.
But I’m letting myself feel it—whatever "it" is.
I’m letting the memories rise and the numbness sit beside me.
And I’m reminding myself that I don’t have to choose between sadness and joy.
They can both live here.
So today, I’m naming it.
Letting it be real.
Letting it breathe.
Because pretending I’m only one thing—just happy, strong, excited—doesn’t tell the truth.
This season is layered.
This growth is sacred.
And this grief? It’s part of letting go that makes room for something new.
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