August 12, 2026

I was right.

Yesterday I did way too much, and today my body made sure I knew it.

I spent most of the day in bed and in pain. I did manage to get up, shower, eat and take my meds, so the basics are covered. At this point, I’m learning that sometimes those things have to count as accomplishments.

Today is Wednesday, which means tomorrow is garbage day. I got myself out of bed to take the garbage out, and while I was outside, one of my neighbors asked me how my mom was doing.

And for the first time since she died, I had to tell someone who didn’t know.

“My mom died.”

I’ve obviously said those words before. I’ve written them. I’ve planned her funeral. I’ve handled her affairs. I’ve picked up her flowers and photographs from the funeral home. I’ve started changing things around the house that existed because I was her caregiver.

I know she died.

But there was something about having someone casually ask how she was and having to answer that question that knocked the wind out of me all over again.

She didn’t know my entire world had changed.

And for a second, I had to explain it.

So I came back inside sad again.

I know I keep dwelling on the sadness. I know eventually it won’t feel exactly like this. I know grief doesn’t really disappear, but somehow we learn to adjust to its weight.

But if I’m being completely truthful, I’m scared.

I’m scared this immense pain is going to stay with me forever.

In a little over a year, I lost my dad, my soul pup Spencer and now my mom. I lost all of my people and the little soul who followed me everywhere.

That kind of shit messes a person up.

You can keep going. You can work. You can laugh. You can make things and pay bills and take out the garbage and feed the dog and answer emails and build a business. You can go through all the motions of being alive while still feeling completely broken inside.

So what if I stay broken?

What if that part of me never heals enough for me to figure out how to really live again?

Because I am living.

I know I am.

But right now, it feels like I’m only living halfway.

Part of me is gone forever, and I know that part isn’t coming back. I don’t think losing people you love leaves you exactly as you were before. There is a version of me who existed when my dad, Mom and Spencer were all still here, and I will never be that person again.

I understand that.

What I don’t understand yet is how to become a whole person again without them.

People talk about the stages of grief. Shock and denial. Pain and guilt. Anger and bargaining. Depression. The upward turn. Reconstruction. Acceptance and hope. There are different versions of the model, and grief certainly doesn’t seem interested in following them neatly or in order.

I think I bounce around all of them.

Sometimes within the same fucking hour.

One minute I’m organizing my shop and thinking about new jewelry I want to make. The next I’m lying in bed crying because I remembered something Mom said. I can feel hopeful about my future and devastated by my present at exactly the same time.

Maybe that’s what going through the motions looks like right now.

I also know it hasn’t even been a month.

That’s the part I have to keep reminding myself of.

It hasn’t even been a month since my mom died, and somehow I’m already expecting myself to know how to live an entirely different life.

That’s probably not particularly fair.

I’m doing the things I need to do to survive. I’m eating. I’m taking my meds. I’m taking care of Beaker. I’m showering. I’m handling my parents’ affairs. I’m working when I can. I’m going to therapy. I’m slowly putting my house and my shop back together.

I’m still here.

So logically, I know it’s probably irrational to look at how I feel right now and decide this is how I’m going to feel for the rest of my life.

But grief isn’t logical.

And fear certainly isn’t.

So yes, I’m scared that I’ll stay broken.

I’m scared that I’ll never feel completely like a person again.

I’m scared that I’ll become really good at going through the motions without ever actually feeling alive inside them.

Maybe someday I’ll come back and read this post and realize just how early I was in all of this. Maybe I’ll wish I could reach back through time and tell this version of myself that she does eventually figure it out.

I hope so.

But today I don’t know that yet.

Today, I’m in bed. I’m hurting. I miss my mom. I miss my dad. I miss Spencer. And one innocent question from my neighbor was enough to remind me all over again that they’re really gone.

So I guess I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing.

I’ll eat.

I’ll take my meds.

I’ll take care of Beaker.

I’ll go to therapy.

I’ll work when I can.

I’ll cry when I need to.

And I’ll keep going through the motions until, hopefully, they stop feeling like motions.

Maybe one day I’ll realize I’m not just surviving anymore.

Maybe one day I’ll realize I’ve been living again without even noticing when it happened.

Until then, I guess I just keep going.

One day at a time.

Until breathing feels like second nature again instead of the chore it seems to be right now.