There's a certain kind of strength that does not call attention to itself.
It does not arrive with Applause or recognition. It does not always look brave from the outside. Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed when your heart is heavy. Sometimes it looks like answering one more call, doing one more chore, feeding what depends on you, and choosing not to give up when giving up would feel easier.
At this stage in life, i have learned that beginning again is rarely dramatic. It's quiet.
It happens in my kitchen, it happens while praying for direction and strength, some days it happens in just trying to stop crying. It happens in being grateful, in reminding myself I'm still needed, and finding a purpose, in seeking passion, and in praying for enough strength to make it through one more day with grace. It happens in empty rooms where at times I can almost see my past loved one sitting there. It happens in the memories of my grown children as little ones, back in the days when they were so full of innocence and wonder. And there is comfort in seeing I did make some right decisions. I see it now when I watch their parenting, their work ethic, the lives they've built. I played a hand in that, and I'm grateful.
Even when my thoughts sit with the daughter I lost. I know we shared a relationship only we can have. It was built by not giving up, by staying, believing in better days and greater things, that bond does not leave me.
Healing is not a grand awakening.
For me, it comes quietly. It comes in small moments that would not mean much to anyone else but mean everything to me.
Today I prepared food I had been afraid to fix again.
It was a kind of food my daughter and I would laugh and talk over. The kind of meal we would put together on "produce day" for the monkeys. After going through the routine of monkey barn meal prep and feeding, we would bring some of the unexpected extra produce in the house and makeup recipes we probably never would have tried otherwise. Some turned out surprisingly good, good enough to be worthy of a family meal. Others were complete failures, tossed aside with the kind of laughter that's loud and deep. Those recipes were never to be attempted again.
But it was together. And it was fun.
Today I did that again. Just me, the company of the Monkeys and our taste buds. In that quiet moment, I prayed, laughed, cried and let myself enjoy the sweetness of those memories. It made me happy. I know I will never recover from the loss of Nikki. That kind of loss changes a person forever. I also know that love remains. Memory remains. Gratitude remains. And that is a quiet step to healing.
Today I sent my family my usual short Sunday encouragement text. I felt so very grateful for each one of them. I love them all deeply. I hold very special memories of each one of them also. They're not the same memories, they're different. Each having their own special place, precious and equally as priceless.
I feel that is what beginning again quietly really is. Not forgetting. Not getting over it. Not pretending the loss did not change my family and my heart. But choosing, little by little, to let life still speak. To allow memory to warm us. To let gratitude sit beside grief. To laugh again without guilt. To remember with love instead of only pain.
Sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is simply continue, quietly, prayerfully, one day at a time.
And that is a beginning.
If these words help you to relate or feel something in your heart I would love for you to share a step to your beginning. Some of the bravest stories are the ones that no one else sees.
"Beginning again is not always a fresh start. Sometimes it is finding the courage to let memory and gratitude sit beside grief."