Life has been moving fast lately, and if I’m being completely transparent, my brain has been pulled in about twenty different directions.
The home health company I’m helping build from the ground up has been getting busier and requiring more of my focus than I realized it would. It’s exciting and exhausting all at the same time.
At home, baseball season has started for my bonus son. Drama rehearsals have ramped up for my oldest bonus daughter. My youngest bonus daughter is juggling softball and dance. And today… my own daughter officially left her teens behind and turned 20 years old. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that.
Somewhere in the middle of all of that, I’ve also been preparing my presentation for the Global Grief Conference coming up at the end of April. I’m doing my best not to procrastinate… so far I’m doing okay — but only time will tell, lol.
But in the middle of all this chaos, something happened that stopped me in my tracks.
While scrolling through Facebook one night, I learned that an old friend from high school had passed away unexpectedly. He was a big part of my life through high school and into my early twenties. Seeing that news hit me harder than I expected, and I’m still trying to process the emotions that have come with it.
Grief has a strange way of reopening doors we thought we had already closed.
One thing that surprised me was how my old trauma responses showed up again. Because of PTSD from past relationships, I felt hesitant to even tell my husband about the loss. Logically, I knew he would be supportive — he’s an incredible man and someone I trust deeply. But my nervous system still sounded every alarm as I opened up.
Even with all the healing work I’ve done, moments like this remind me there are still layers left to work through.
But I told him.
And he did exactly what a loving partner does.
He listened.
He let me talk.
He let me feel the emotions without trying to fix them.
He even offered to go to the funeral home with me once arrangements are made.
In that moment, something healed just a little bit more.
Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is let someone love us.
Then, as if grief was already heavy enough, I saw another heartbreaking post.
A woman I used to work with — and her ex-husband who I also went to high school with — lost their 6th grade daughter to suicide. Posts from friends and family have stated it was due to bullying.
I cannot even begin to fathom the depth of the pain that family is experiencing right now.
No parent should ever have to bury their child.
Moments like these are painful reminders of how fragile life is, and how deeply our words and actions impact the people around us.
So I want to say something very clearly to anyone reading this:
You are not alone.
If life feels overwhelming…
If the darkness feels like too much…
If you feel like you’re screaming into a void where no one hears you…
Please reach out.
Tell someone.
And if the first person doesn’t listen, find another.
And another.
Keep reaching until you find someone who will sit with you in the darkness.
Because I promise you this — somewhere out there is someone who has walked through the same dark tunnel and has found their way back toward the light.
And if you need someone to simply witness your grief…
You can write to me.
I read every message I receive.
If I can help, I will.
And if I can’t, I will help you find someone who can.
This world can feel heavy sometimes. But even in the darkest moments, there are still people who care.
Please take a moment today to send a little extra light, love, and prayer toward the families who lost someone this week.
I pray they find guidance when they feel lost.
I pray they find shoulders to cry on.
I pray they find ears willing to listen as they silently scream into the darkness they’re living in right now.
And most of all, I pray they find moments of comfort — even in the middle of unimaginable pain.
Hold your people a little closer tonight.
Transformation begins with one decision — to believe that even in our darkest moments, there is still an abundance of light.
With hope and encouragement,
Dawn
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