I like to think of myself as a positive person — hopefully not the kind who spills toxic positivity into every room, but the kind who genuinely loves people and wants the best for them. If I see a sad face, my first instinct is to lift it. To remind someone they are still alive, still breathing, still here. I want to say, “Cheer up, buttercup. I love you. Let’s find something that makes you smile.”
But today, as I sit here writing, I am fighting grief — the kind of grief that makes you want the whole world to be quiet. The kind that doesn’t want a pep talk. The kind that needs stillness.
I’m sure you’ve been there. And maybe you’ve had someone like me standing nearby, trying to hand you sunshine when what you really needed was space to sit in the rain.
I realized something today: I have to learn how to sit quietly in the moment. I have to let myself feel what I feel — even when it hurts. If I keep burying pain deep within my soul, how will I ever truly heal? Sometimes it’s okay to not be okay. Sometimes you have to close the door, turn down the noise, and simply breathe. To allow the ache to exist without trying to fix it.
My mother-in-law was a very special woman. She was the Thelma to my Louise — my partner in laughter, in mischief, in life’s little adventures. Loving someone with a heart the size of Texas means losing them will never be easy. Yes, she had flaws. We all do. But our flaws are what make us beautifully human, uniquely ourselves.
Her last day on this earth was filled with a level of pain I had never witnessed before. Watching her suffer tore my heart to shreds. I would have traded places with her in a second if I could have. Feeling that helpless — that is a kind of sorrow that lingers.
There is one strange mercy in living with a brain injury and memory loss. In a few weeks, I will not remember the details of what she endured. I won’t remember standing there, wishing I could take her pain away. That part will fade.
And maybe that is grace.
Because what will remain are the good memories — the laughter, the healthy days, the moments when her light filled the room. I am deeply thankful that my long-term memory is strong. Those memories are mine to keep. They are stitched into my heart. They cannot be taken from me.
So today, I am learning something new. I am learning that positivity does not mean ignoring pain. It means honoring it. It means allowing grief to have its moment — trusting that healing will come, just like it always does.
Sometimes we lift others.
Sometimes we sit quietly beside them.
And sometimes, we have to learn to do that for ourselves.