Graced with Grit

how poetry unintentionally helped me heal

Grief doesn’t always show up in the big, cinematic moments. Sometimes it’s in the quietest ones, walking past a quilt shop, hearing a phrase they used to say, or holding a coffee cup that somehow still smells like them.

When my Grammy passed, I didn’t just lose her physical presence. I lost a million small worlds- her voice, her rituals, the particular way she showed love. But writing about her helped me keep those things alive. Not for closure, but for connection. For remembering. For gratitude, even when it hurt.

This is one of the ways I’ve written my grief. Not in a linear story, but in a collection of the things that remind me she was here, and that she mattered, deeply.

Things that will always remind me of my Grammy

A long walk in the mountains / the steady rumble of a sewing machine / blueberry muffins / Airedales / personifying family pets / buddha statues surrounded by koi ponds / funky earrings / Clinique strawberry glace lipstick / Cheerios with frozen blueberries and a sprinkle of sugar / 'motion is lotion' / 'I love this house' /planting and caring for plants / being a damn good teacher/ unannounced visits met with hugs and kisses / being equally kind and powerful/ seeing beauty within suffering/ and grief/ and chaos/ in everything, because it all creates the human experience/ creating community… everywhere / making lunches for volunteer groups / creating shady ladies to bring art and women together / creating the most stunning and intricate quilts.. And making it look easy? / being rich, in love / in gratitude / in knowledge and desire to learn/ in kindness and silliness and badass-ness too/ Honesty/ Waynesville / practically everything reminds me of my Grammy / practically everything is different without her.

Sometimes, the most healing thing I can do is write down the things that grief is made of, not just what I lost, but what I got to have. Grief doesn’t end. It just changes shape; from sharp to quiet, from chaos to memory, from ache to a kind of gratitude you never asked for.

I carry her with me now. In the small things. In the way I show up for people. In the humor I have, and the things I stand up for. In the beauty I still try to notice, even on hard days.

She’s not gone- not really.
She just lives differently now.
And I’m learning how to keep living, too.

If you’re grieving someone, I hope you know that missing them doesn’t mean you’re stuck. It means they mattered. It means you’re still loving them, in your own way.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful part of all this: the love doesn’t leave.

We just learn how to carry it differently.

Take care of yourself. Talk soon! – Grace