18/08/2026
I was three and a half years into my own journey of grief when I found myself in a Starbucks off I-75, pouring my heart into my journal while I waited for traffic to clear.
It was a steamy, Atlanta August 30th.
And National Grief Awareness Day.
I’ve been thinking of that afternoon from so many years ago as we head toward yet another August 30th.
What spilled onto the page that day was raw and honest.
Grief had shattered me in ways I never imagined.
Three months after Harry passed away, when the adrenalin and shock started to fade, I finally started crying.
And I couldn't stop.
I cried from the moment I woke up until I went to sleep. I cried through phone calls and dinner with friends.
I cried in the shower.
I cried on the porch.
I cried over fried chicken in my booth at Papa Jack's.
If I were a beer drinker, I would have cried in my beer.
I cried so much that I thought I would surely run out of water at some point!
And there were moments I was sure I would break.
And yet… at the very same time…a quiet awakening had begun.
Unexpected beauty in the smallest, most ordinary things.
Signs.
Synchronicities.
Moments of light that appeared right beside the darkness.
It confused me at first.
How could the deepest pain I’d ever known coexist with moments that felt almost… magical?
But grief is complicated like that.
It is brutal.
It is disorienting.
It is life-altering.
And sometimes, it can also open us in ways we never anticipated.
Over time, certain practices helped me move through the darkness and gently back toward the light — practices that softened the ache and helped me grow in ways I didn’t expect.
Gratitude
Remembrance
Intuition
Expression
Faith
They didn’t erase the pain.
They didn’t “fix” anything.
But they did help me shift from surviving to slowly, quietly thriving.
And to begin the journey back to myself.
And along the way I learned that grief doesn’t have to be an “either/or.”
It can be an “and.”
On the night that Harry died, unexpectedly and 4,000 miles away, my world of vivid color turned black and white.
But the sun never gave up on me.
During the “horrifically beautiful” time in my life, paralyzing darkness and brilliant light coexisted – the darkness almost seeming to amplify the light.
At times I felt quite guilty about this – of feeling any amount of joy.
In fact, this photo – which I took in Anchorage, Alaska just days before the coffee stop in Atlanta – was a beautiful golden sunset.
But I changed it to black and white before I shared it for the first time in 2017. Most every year since then, I’ve reposted it. Always in black and white.
Last year, it somehow seemed “right” to let the sun peek out. To show darkness and light side by side. Each with its own place.
Perhaps each is necessary for the other to exist.
And it seems right to share the practices that helped me move, ever so slowly, out of the darkness.
Especially as we approach a day meant to open conversations about the grieving process and to encourage support for those who are traveling that road.
So if your heart is heavy with grief, I send you light and love and a dusting of hope….
I know it’s hard to consider, especially if your journey has just begun—but I do believe that the sun is still shining above the dark clouds. And that one day, in your own time, the colors will return, the flowers will bloom, the birds will sing and the sun will shine on you once more.
If you’d like some company on your journey, I invite you to check out Song of the Cardinal: A true story of miracles and magic after heartbreaking loss.
It’s the book I wanted and needed to read after Harry died, and I wrote it to provide assurance that:
✨ You are never alone
✨ It’s never too late to follow your dreams
✨ Grace is waiting patiently for you on the other side of grief
❤️❤️❤️
