September 13, 2026
I haven’t written in a couple of days, so I guess today’s update is really a culmination of the last few.
I’ve been trying to sit less with my grief and focus more on my business.
That sounded like a good plan.
It did not work particularly well.
My sleep habits are completely fucked. My body is drained. I feel like I’m trying to outrun something that keeps catching up to me no matter how busy I stay.
I know I’m supposed to sit with grief when it hits.
I know that.
But sometimes it feels like if I sit with it every time it comes, I will never get back up.
And lately, it feels like my entire life is consumed by it more often than not.
I guess that’s what happens when your whole family dies in a little over a year.
I hate feeling sad all the time.
I hate waking up sad.
I hate going to bed sad.
I hate having moments where I forget for half a second and then remember all over again.
Everyone keeps telling me it’s going to get better.
I don’t think that’s the right word.
Maybe it gets less drastic.
Maybe the pain doesn’t feel this sharp forever.
Maybe eventually I learn how to carry it without feeling like it’s crushing me every single day.
But better?
My mom is still gone.
My dad is still gone.
Spencer is still gone.
I will always miss them.
There is no version of “better” that gives them back to me.
I’m Staying Quiet for a While
I’ve been keeping to myself more.
Every time I go somewhere, someone asks me how I’m holding up.
And I know they mean well.
I know they care.
But I don’t know how to answer that question anymore.
I’m not holding up.
I’m surviving.
There’s a difference.
I don’t want to put on a face and say, “Yeah, I’m okay.”
Because at this point, I don’t even know what okay means.
I feel broken.
Completely shattered.
There are days when I genuinely wonder if this version of me is repairable.
Losing everyone so quickly has done something to me that I don’t know how to explain to people who haven’t experienced it.
I don’t want to laugh.
I don’t want to smile.
I don’t want to be around people.
I want to stay in my bed and disappear into the blankets for a while.
And yet I know I can’t live there forever.
I know the people I lost would never want me to grief myself to death.
I know that.
So I get up.
Maybe not every time I think I should.
Maybe not gracefully.
But I do.
The Basics Still Count
I’m doing the things.
The basic things.
The life things.
The things that keep my body alive even when my brain feels like it has checked out.
I take my meds.
I eat.
I take care of Beaker.
I handle paperwork.
I work on the shop when I can.
I make appointments.
I answer the things that need answering.
I keep moving.
And I know that counts.
I really do know that.
But my God, sometimes it feels pointless.
I want to be very clear because I know how this sounds.
I have no intention of hurting myself.
I have no intention of letting things get so bad that I completely stop living my life.
I know that isn’t what I want.
But this is what grief does.
It consumes.
It gets into everything.
It takes up space in your chest, your head, your body, your sleep, your appetite, your motivation.
And when you’re already exhausted, it feels even bigger.
The Anger Is Still There Too
There is also anger mixed into all of this.
A lot of it.
I still have so many questions about what happened during my mom’s hospitalization and how everything changed so quickly.
I replay parts of those weeks in my head more than I probably should.
I think about conversations.
Decisions.
Moments I wish I understood better.
And I’m angry.
I’m angry that I still have questions.
I’m angry that the entire experience left me with so much confusion and resentment.
I don’t know yet what answers I’ll ever get, if any.
And because there may still be things I need to sort through privately, I’m not going to turn this blog into a place where I make conclusions I’m not ready to make.
But emotionally?
Yeah.
I’m angry.
Deeply.
And I don’t know when that goes away either.
Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe eventually I just learn where to put it.
And Then There’s My Own Mortality
On top of everything else, I’m also making decisions about my own future and my own estate.
Which is responsible.
And smart.
And something adults are supposed to do.
I fucking hate it.
I hate thinking about my own mortality right now.
I have spent the last year surrounded by death.
I have spent the last several months dealing with wills, estates, paperwork, funeral decisions, financial accounts and all the things that come after someone dies.
And now I’m supposed to sit down and make decisions about what happens when I die?
No thank you.
I’m not ready to go anywhere.
I have too much I want to do.
Too much I want to create.
Too many places I want to see.
Too many ridiculous things I still want to collect.
Too much life I still want to live.
I know preparing for death doesn’t mean I’m planning to die.
But after everything that has happened, even thinking about it scares the shit out of me.
This Is Bogus
It hasn’t even been two months since Mom died.
I know that.
I know this is still incredibly fresh.
But honestly?
This is bogus.
I’m angry.
I’m sad.
I’m depressed.
I’m lonely.
I’m confused.
I’m conflicted.
And right now, I can’t find the happiness in me.
I know that doesn’t mean it’s gone forever.
At least I hope it doesn’t.
But today I can’t see it.
And maybe I don’t need to pretend that I can.
Maybe today’s blog doesn’t need some uplifting ending where I tell everyone that tomorrow is going to be brighter.
I don’t know what tomorrow will be.
I don’t know how long this part lasts.
I don’t know when I’ll genuinely laugh without immediately remembering who isn’t here to hear it.
I don’t know when being alone will stop feeling easier than trying to explain how much I’m hurting.
I don’t know when I’ll feel like myself again.
Or if I’ll ever be exactly that person again.
Maybe I’m not supposed to be.
I don’t know.
That seems to be the theme around here.
What I do know is that I’m still here.
Even when I don’t particularly feel like participating in life, I’m still participating.
I’m doing the basics.
I’m taking care of Beaker.
I’m working when I can.
I’m writing.
I’m going to therapy.
I’m still making plans for a future that, somewhere underneath all of this grief, I know I still want.
Today, that has to be enough.
Because I really don’t know what else to say.