Grief is one of those words we use like it means one thing. Like it has one shape. One timeline. One correct way to move through it. But grief is layered. And it shows up in more ways than we talk about.

We usually think of grief as death—and yes, that kind of grief deserves space. But grief also comes from loss of expectations, loss of health, loss of relationships, loss of the life you thought you were going to live. Everyone carries something. Everyone has something they’re grieving, whether it’s visible or not.

For me, my first deep encounters with grief came in my mid-twenties. I lost my grandma, and then a few years later, my other grandma. Losing a grandparent is hard in a way that doesn’t really soften with time—you just learn how to hold it differently. And living in another state makes it even harder. You aren’t there for the day-to-day, the slow goodbyes, the little moments at the end. You’re left holding memories and trying to stretch them far enough to get you through the ache.

At the time, I thought that was the hardest grief I would ever know.

And then, a few years ago, I unexpectedly lost my dad.

My boys’ Papa.
My husband’s father-in-law.
My person.

And that is a completely different level of grief.

What people don’t always talk about is that sometimes you don’t get to grieve right away. When my dad died, I had to pull up my bootstraps and keep everything else functioning. I made decisions. I handled arrangements. I made sure my mom was taken care of. I checked in on my brother. I organized the funeral. Set up meal trains. Took care of things no one prepares you for—and no one sees once it’s done.

My husband was my rock through all of it. He never rushed me, never told me how I should be processing. He just let me do what I needed to do to survive that season.

And then, months later, it was my turn to fall apart.

Because grief doesn’t follow a schedule. There isn’t a neat timeline or a set of stages you check off and move past. There’s no “you should be better by now.” Grief shows up when it wants to—and sometimes it waits until you finally feel safe enough to let it.

Add motherhood on top of that, and the weight multiplies.

There were questions. So many questions.
Where is Papa?
Why is Mommy sad?
Is he in heaven?
Can we see him again?

I never want my boys to forget their Papa. So even in the middle of grief, we talk about him. We watch videos. We tell stories. We say his name often—almost daily. And sometimes that helps. And sometimes it hurts like hell.

There are so many moments I still want to call him. To ask his opinion. To tell him about a project. About this house. I know he would be in the middle of everything—helping, teasing, making things lighter just by being himself. Through surgeries, through recovery, through the chaos of life, I know he’d be here with the boys, taking care of me, cracking jokes, making the serious feel less heavy.

It’s the small things that hit the hardest.

Some days grief feels manageable. It brings laughter. Gratitude. A memory that feels warm instead of sharp.
And other days, it’s crushing. Debilitating. The kind of heavy that makes it hard to breathe, let alone function.

Both can exist. Sometimes in the same day.

This is just one part of my grief story. There are more layers. More types. More losses that don’t fit neatly into a box. In these next few posts I’m going to go through some of the other phases of grief I’ve personally gone through.