A Month Without Her: Grief, Growth, and Finding My Way Forward

It’s been almost a month since my grandmother passed, and in that short time, everything feels both too quiet and too full. Grief has a way of doing that—making space and crowding it at the same time. There’s no playbook for this, but here’s what I’ve been learning as I figure out how to keep moving.

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1. A Quiet Milestone

Saturday marks one month. A blink and a stretch all at once.

The past few weeks have been filled with everything—grief, love, anxiety, relief, joy, discomfort. Some days, I know exactly what I’m feeling. Other days, I don’t know where to put any of it.

What catches me most are the little things: a smell, a song, a phrase someone says. They hit out of nowhere and pull me back to her.

The other day, my mom and I found an old bottle of her perfume in a jewelry box. My mom sprayed it, curious to see if she’d like it. We both immediately started coughing—it was strong. But we laughed because it was so her. Bold. Unapologetic. Not for the faint of heart. Definitely not something we’ll be wearing, but it felt like she was right there with us in that moment.

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2. The Unexpected Weight of Grief

I thought I’d be crying all the time. And yes, I’ve had those moments—full-on sobbing, body tired from it. But mostly, it’s been quiet. A slow, steady ache. A few tears here and there, but more often just a heaviness I carry.

Some days, I feel okay. Present. Even light. Other days, I feel like I’m floating outside my body, watching everything from a distance. Grief doesn’t follow rules. It comes when it wants, however it wants.

There’s also been this strange sense of relief. Relief that she’s no longer suffering. That the hard parts of caretaking are behind us. And then comes the guilt for feeling that way. But I’m learning that peace and pain can live side by side. That feeling both doesn’t mean I loved her any less.

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3. Redefining “Normal”

Now there’s space. Time. Silence I didn’t ask for.

The house is too quiet. My days have more room in them, but I’m not sure what to do with it yet. I have more time, more thoughts, and somehow less energy. I’m tired in a way rest doesn’t always fix.

I’m slowly figuring out what this new normal looks like. I’ve started cooking again. Taking long walks with my mom. Doing yoga. Sitting on patios with a glass of wine and a good book. I’m building new rhythms—small things that bring comfort and remind me to care for myself, too.

I’m also giving myself permission to pause. To rest without guilt. Especially as we move into the holidays, I know some days will hit harder than others. I’m not trying to power through it—I’m trying to be soft with myself. To let the feelings come and trust that I’ll find my way through.

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4. What Grief Is Teaching Me

Caregiving and grieving have both shifted my priorities. They’ve made me sharper about what really matters.

Say what you need to say. Love out loud. Do the things that bring peace and joy. Don’t wait.

I try to keep her close by doing the things she loved—cheering for the Chiefs, flipping through old photos, talking about her as often as I can. Remembering the way she smiled, the things she taught me. That’s helped shift my grief from just mourning her death to truly celebrating her life.

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5. Holding On While Letting Go

I’m still holding on—to her voice, her lessons, her legacy.

I’m even getting a tattoo in her honor: “Don’t take no wooden nickels.” That was her favorite saying to me. It always made me laugh, but it was her way of saying, “Don’t let the world play you.” It means more now than ever.

I’m also getting ready to move to back to Dallas. It’s a new chapter, but one that still keeps me close to her. I’ll be just a few hours from Galveston and the ocean she grew up near. Something about that feels right—like I’m moving forward without letting go of where I came from.

Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. It’s not neat. It’s not predictable. But I take comfort in knowing she’s still with me—in my choices, my laughter, my values. Her story continues through mine. And that gives me peace.