Funerals are strange places. They can be overwhelming and therapeutic all at once. I don’t have research or case studies to back that up—this is simply the world according to Rob—but after the past two days of visitations, I believe it deeply.
Even under the best circumstances, funerals are emotionally exhausting. Add a brain injury to the mix, and what might be difficult for others can quickly become the perfect storm. I had already spent hours mentally preparing myself to see my mother-in-law lying in her casket. That alone sent me into an emotional tailspin. Combine that with barely two and a half hours of sleep the night before, and my body and brain were already waving white flags.
When I arrived, words failed me. Complete sentences felt just out of reach. People who don’t often see me in moments like that were understandably concerned. I did my best to avoid conversations—not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t want to add one more burden to Sheila by having to explain that this is what cognitive overload looks like for me.
The funeral director was incredibly kind. She gently encouraged me to lie down on the couch, reassuring me that it was absolutely okay. I knew she was right, but I resisted. I worried about how it might look—afraid people would think I didn’t want to be there or that I was being antisocial. It took a lot of convincing, but eventually the pounding headache and sheer pain won the argument. I gave in, and I’m grateful I did.
Despite the overwhelm, something beautiful happened.
I saw people I hadn’t seen in years. Just hearing familiar voices brought a calm sense of security. I watched as love for my mother-in-law filled the room. I overheard story after story that began with, “I’ll never forget the time…”—and I smiled every time, because I knew what was coming next would be something happy, funny, or inspiring.
I won’t pretend she was perfect. None of us are. There were people in her life who held grudges against her. But if we’re honest, a deep enough dive into any life would reveal someone who dislikes us, misunderstands us, or has written us off entirely.
And here is where I found peace.
We cannot control the bitterness others choose to carry. That is not our cross to bear. Holding a grudge is like swallowing poison and waiting for someone else to die—it only harms the one who refuses to let go.
If someone in your life has chosen to write you off, know this: that loss belongs to them, not you.
We may never control how others perceive us, but we always have control over how we respond. Life is short, and when it’s over, there are no do-overs. No rewinds. No “I wish I had said…”
So, love generously—even those who don’t love you back.
Forgive often—even when it’s hard.
And never let a single day pass without telling the people closest to you how deeply they matter.
Because in the end, it’s not perfection that’s remembered.
It’s love.