It's been almost a month.


Thirty whole days. Which apparently, in the timeline of the world, is the exact point where everyone collectively decides, “Okay… she should be good now, right?”

Like grief comes with a free 30-day trial and then just quietly cancels itself.

The casseroles have stopped. The cards have slowed down. The world has very politely, very efficiently moved on.

And me?

I’m still over here like, “Wait… we’re done talking about this? Because I absolutely am not.”

At this point, I’m pretty sure people are tired of hearing about death. Like if grief had a mute button, someone in my life would have gently pressed it by now. I can almost see it on their faces:

“Oh no… here she goes again…”

Yes. Yes, I do go here again. Frequently. Unapologetically. This is my current personality. I don’t love it either, but here we are.

Because the truth is, once the chaos and shock wear off, you’re expected to just… rejoin society. Slide right back into “normal life” as if you didn’t just lose one of the most important people in your world.

The only problem?

I have no idea what “normal” is anymore. That version of me is gone. She left with my mom, and now I’m just out here freelancing a personality and hoping no one notices.

I go through the motions. I show up. I do the things. From the outside, I probably look like I’m adjusting.

Inside, I’m basically a mix of exhaustion, confusion, and “is that a sign or am I just losing it?”

Because yes—I am actively looking for signs. Everywhere.

A random breeze? Mom.

A song on the radio? Definitely Mom.                     

A weirdly timed coincidence? Oh, that’s absolutely her, no one can convince me otherwise.

At this point, if a squirrel makes prolonged eye contact with me, I’m like, “Okay but is this a message?”

I’m grasping for anything that says she’s still around. Because the silence where she used to be is… loud.

And then there’s the crying.

Oh, the crying.

It’s not scheduled. It’s not convenient. It’s not even predictable. I can go from “I’m okay” to “I am absolutely not okay” in 0.3 seconds. No warning. No build-up. Just immediate emotional ambush.

It’s honestly impressive. If grief were a sport, I’d be elite.

And the exhaustion? Next level.

This isn’t “I stayed up too late” tired. This is “my soul is tired” tired. The kind of tired where sleep feels like a suggestion, not a solution. I could nap for three days straight and still wake up like I just ran a marathon… emotionally.

I thought maybe I was getting a little stronger.

I even decided, in what can only be described as a bold and slightly unhinged moment of optimism, to enter a Vision & Verse poetry contest. This is the year I'm getting out there, trying new things. So, poetry was my weapon of choice. Two ekphrastic poems—one about birth, one about death. You know, just keeping things light for my first go around.

At the time, I had absolutely no intention of reading them out loud. That felt like a “future me problem.”

Unfortunately, future me arrived last Saturday.

And suddenly I was faced with the very real possibility of standing in front of people and reading a poem about death… one month after losing my mom. I strongly considered bailing. Like, very strongly. I had full conversations with myself about how no one would notice, how it would be fine, how I could simply disappear and no one would question it.

But then I had the equally annoying realization that I would absolutely regret not going.

So… I went.

I tried reading my poetry out loud. Got through one—felt pretty proud, not gonna lie. Thought, “Wow, look at me. Growth. Healing. We love to see it.”

Then I got to the one about death.

And my body said, “Absolutely not.”

I had to have the juror read for me as I quickly bolted as far out of sight as I could get without physically leaving. I was mortified. 

But that’s grief. It humbles you real quick. Apparently, it also has excellent timing and a flair for public dramatic pauses.

Lately, I’ve also become… selectively antisocial.

Which is a nice way of saying I avoid people because I don’t want to answer, “How are you?”

Because what am I supposed to say?

“Living the dream”?

“Thriving”?

“Absolutely crushed but thanks for asking”?

The honest answer is I’m not doing great. But saying that out loud feels heavy, and I don’t always have the energy to carry it through a conversation. So instead, I just… disappear a little. Not forever. Just enough to not have to explain myself.

And then come the what ifs.

My brain’s favorite late-night programming.

What if I pushed harder?

What if we caught it sooner?

What if I did something differently?

It’s like my mind is trying to rewrite a story that already ended. Logically, I know I couldn’t have changed the outcome.

Emotionally? Oh, we’re still debating it.

Even though we knew this was coming… it still feels unexpected. Because no amount of “knowing” actually prepares you for the moment they’re gone.

So here I am. One month in.

Still talking about it.

Still crying about it.

Still making people mildly uncomfortable with my commitment to processing it out loud.

And honestly?

I’m probably going to keep talking about it.

Because this isn’t something that wraps up neatly. There’s no clean ending, no “okay, I’m done grieving now” moment. There’s just… moving forward, one messy, emotional, unpredictable day at a time.

So if you’re tired of hearing about it—

Imagine how tired I am of living it.

But also… thank you for listening anyway.

Even when I say the same things.

Even when I circle back.

Even when grief makes me a little louder, a little messier, a little harder to understand.

I’m still figuring out what this new version of life looks like.

And for now, this is part of it.