Grief doesn’t silence joy. Sometimes it sneaks out in the middle of missing someone, and for a second the ache softens. What remains in laughter is proof we’re still alive, still capable of carrying both sorrow and joy at once.
Read MoreNicole is a friend with whom I’ve shared grief and growth, and her words here carry both the personal and the collective. From Guam, she speaks with the voice of her Chamorro heritage, honoring scars that run through her people’s history while lifting up the resilience, culture, and memory that remain. What she shares is not only her truth, but an opening for us to pause, remember, and listen.
Read MoreMorning always comes, even when grief tries to convince us otherwise. Light seeps through curtains, spills across kitchen floors, glows in a candle wick. What remains in light is possibility, the proof that darkness doesn’t win forever.
Read MoreSome people have passed on, and I think about it daily.
A wind chime on someone’s porch, a western movie, certain types of snacks, flowers dancing in the wind, and corny jokes only we understood
These are memories I share with a special loved one. I miss her dearly.
Read MoreLoss doesn’t erase habit. The way we fold towels the way they taught us, the way we whisper a prayer before meals, or the way we pause at their favorite song. Rituals are echoes of love, we keep them going so we don’t forget.
Read MoreWhat remains…
A heart that is somehow is still hopeful, imperfectly mended, and ready for being loved properly,
A sense of resilience that life isn’t what happens to you, but what you have conquered…
Read MoreScars are proof. They don’t fade completely, and maybe they’re not supposed to. They remind us that we lived through something sharp and came out changed. What remains in scars is resilience disguised as tenderness.
Read MoreThe tree doesn’t know why I pour coffee at its base. Its branches lean over my mother’s grave. Coffee was her Sunday morning drink. After her Saturday evening wine.
“Don’t break my heart, boy.”
Read MoreStories outlive us. They get passed around like hand-me-downs… told at cookouts, whispered at funerals, exaggerated over time. What remains in stories is how we stay alive in each other’s mouths, stitched together by memory and myth.
Read MoreEntering life after 40 without children has stirred a mix of emotions and reflections for me. I found myself questioning personal fulfillment, societal expectations, and the meaning of legacy. What remains? The relationships I've built, the experiences I've gathered, and the dreams yet to be pursued. The absence of the traditional family structure has encouraged me to delve deeper into what truly matters, leading me to explore different forms of connection and community…
Read MoreTime doesn’t erase, it layers. We measure anniversaries of both presence and absence, holding space for both. What remains in time is the truth that grief and love never leave, they simply take new shapes.
Read MoreA Posthumous Contribution.
My mom has always been part of these birthday reflections. She’s written for past series, and even after her passing she finds her way into this one. Before she died, she left words for us to discover. A letter. A poem. A comfort. Her way of making sure she still had a seat at the table, even when she wasn’t here in body. I can’t think of anything more fitting for What Remains than to let her voice speak again… clear, tender, and eternal. Here is my mother’s posthumous contribution to this series:
Read MorePaper doesn’t forget. Folded notes, birthday cards, even grocery lists scrawled in their hand. What remains in letters is the intimacy of handwriting, something no machine can mimic, proof they were here.
Read MoreEvery September, I get a little reflective. Some people want cake for their birthday month. I want words.
A few times over the years, I’ve invited friends and family to write around a theme, Forever Young, Forty Years to Life, Life Changes. The tradition has been on pause for a bit, but this year felt right to bring it back.
The theme is simple: What Remains.
Read MoreSome days arrive quietly, carrying a heaviness I can’t always name. It doesn’t shout or announce itself it just shows up in my chest, in my pace, in the way the light feels different.
Sadness has a way of disguising itself. Sometimes it’s weariness. Sometimes it’s distraction. Sometimes it’s silence when I usually have words…
Read MoreLately, I’ve been thinking a lot about presence, what we leave in people’s lives long after we’re gone from the room. Not in the big, loud, legacy-making sense, but in the quiet ways that linger.
Today’s piece is a small part of a larger conversation I’ll be sharing soon, one that invites more voices, more reflections, more truths about what remains after the noise fades…
Read MoreThe quiet language of cooking with someone who knows your taste, because it’s their own…
Read More1 Corinthians 13. This chapter captures love with such genuine eloquence that even a non-believer might pause. Drawn in by the beauty of the language alone…
Read MoreThey said heal. I'm healing.
They said let go. I'm working on it.
But I’m still triple-checking your grammar…
Read MoreSomewhere between now and not yet.
There’s something about today. The air is warm, but not urgent. The light hits everything just a little softer. I feel it in my chest, not sadness, exactly, but a kind of stretch…
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