05/17/2026
Eleven years.
People sometimes think grief has an expiration date—that after enough time passes, the ache should disappear.
What I’ve learned is that grief changes.
It softens in some places, surprises you in others, and sometimes shows up not as devastation, but as quiet remembrance.
Today marks 11 years since my father passed.
Looking at this younger photo of us reminds me that grief is also love with a memory attached.
And today, I’m okay.
I’m not falling apart.
I’m not overcome with sadness.
I’m simply remembering.
Because grief isn’t always dramatic, visible, or heavy in the way people expect.
Sometimes it looks like tears.
Sometimes it looks like laughter while holding a memory.
Sometimes it looks like going about your day while simply acknowledging, *I remember.*
Sometimes grief evolves into reflection… into gratitude… into recognizing how someone still lives in your habits, your perspective, your story.
Love doesn’t disappear because time has passed.
If you’ve ever questioned whether you’re grieving “the right way” because it doesn’t look like what you expected, this is your reminder that grief has many forms.
