Grief is not a straight line. It doesn’t move neatly from shock to sadness to acceptance like a checklist you complete and turn in. It loops, backtracks, surprises you in the cereal aisle, and shows up uninvited when you’re folding laundry or sitting at a red light. A few weeks ago, my mother-in-law passed away, and already I’ve learned that grief has its own weather system—sunny moments followed by sudden storms, often in the same hour.
Some days I feel functional, even okay. I answer emails, make plans, laugh at something dumb on TV. Then, without warning, a memory lands—her voice, a phrase she used, the way she showed love in small, practical ways—and the ground shifts. I savor her last voicemail, on New Year's Day she sent me lots of blessings and wishes. She has stayed up all night watching the celebrations from around the globe.
Other days are quieter but heavier, like carrying a backpack full of rocks I didn’t knowingly put on. There’s no rhythm to it. No timeline. Just waves. What makes grief especially strange is the way it coexists with life continuing on. The world doesn’t pause. Dishes still need washing. Birthdays still happen. People still ask, “How are you?”—and sometimes the honest answer feels too big for casual conversation. Loving someone who has died doesn’t end; it just changes form. The relationship doesn’t disappear—it becomes memory, influence, echo.
If you’re grieving, here’s the reminder I keep giving myself: you’re not doing it wrong. There is no “should.” There is only today. Grief isn’t something to get over or power through; it’s something to carry, set down, pick back up, and eventually learn how to walk with. Some days you’ll walk steadily. Some days you’ll sit on the floor and cry. Both count. Both are part of love.
Blessings,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
Some days I feel functional, even okay. I answer emails, make plans, laugh at something dumb on TV. Then, without warning, a memory lands—her voice, a phrase she used, the way she showed love in small, practical ways—and the ground shifts. I savor her last voicemail, on New Year's Day she sent me lots of blessings and wishes. She has stayed up all night watching the celebrations from around the globe.
Other days are quieter but heavier, like carrying a backpack full of rocks I didn’t knowingly put on. There’s no rhythm to it. No timeline. Just waves. What makes grief especially strange is the way it coexists with life continuing on. The world doesn’t pause. Dishes still need washing. Birthdays still happen. People still ask, “How are you?”—and sometimes the honest answer feels too big for casual conversation. Loving someone who has died doesn’t end; it just changes form. The relationship doesn’t disappear—it becomes memory, influence, echo.
If you’re grieving, here’s the reminder I keep giving myself: you’re not doing it wrong. There is no “should.” There is only today. Grief isn’t something to get over or power through; it’s something to carry, set down, pick back up, and eventually learn how to walk with. Some days you’ll walk steadily. Some days you’ll sit on the floor and cry. Both count. Both are part of love.
Blessings,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
RSS Feed