01/18/2026
The morning after someone dies in your home.
The neighbor doesn’t know yet.
The light still comes through the window the same way it always has.
The dust floats. Birds sing their thing. Coffee brews out of habit.
But everything is different.
This is the quietest morning you’ll ever experience because it's not quite peaceful, just hushed.
It feels like the world lowered its voice out of respect.
You’re aware of every sound, every creak, every breath you take without them.
There’s often guilt here.
For sleeping.
For laughing at a memory.
For noticing how beautiful the light is when someone you love is gone.
If this was your morning, you didn’t do it wrong.
This liminal space between presence and absence is part of grief.
It’s sacred, even when it feels unbearable.
Nothing needs to be rushed today.
You’re allowed to stand at the window a little longer.
