Grief Isn’t Equal to a Number

I used to think grief had a timeline.

Not in an exact, mapped-out way—but I believed that with time, things would either get better… or at least lighter. That healing would move forward in some kind of steady direction.

But this year taught me something different.

Grief doesn’t move in a straight line.

It loops. It dips. It surprises you.

And sometimes… it brings you right back.

This March brought me right back.

I walked into it feeling like I had grown. Like I had learned how to carry my mother’s memory in a way that allowed me to keep moving forward. I thought I had found a rhythm—honoring her while still living fully.

Then March 8 came. The night before her birthday.

And it hit me like it was brand new.

The weight.

The memories.

The replay of everything.

It didn’t feel like year three.

It felt like year one.

And for a moment, I found myself wishing for the impossible—to go back, to change it, to rewrite the ending.

Her birthday was hard.

What made it even more real this year… was that life didn’t pause.

It fell on a workday.

And I told myself, this will be the year I do it differently.

I’ll go to work.

I’ll be okay.

I’ll honor her later.

But grief doesn’t follow plans we create in our heads.

It was heavy just getting out the door.

And that’s when it clicked for me—

Grief is not equal to a number.

Not year one.

Not year three.

Not any year.

There is no level you “unlock” where it all makes sense.

But there are things I’m learning to hold onto.

I need a plan.

Not a big production.

Not perfection.

Just intention.

Because when I don’t create space for grief, my mind creates its own—and it often takes me somewhere much heavier. So now I’m learning to choose how I honor her.

A quiet moment.

A journal entry.

Her favorite meal.

A memory spoken out loud.

Something.

And I need to take care of myself.

Because honoring her doesn’t mean losing me.

If anything, it means the opposite.

It means living in a way that reflects everything she poured into me—love, strength, resilience. It means choosing health, choosing joy when I can, choosing to keep going.

Even on the heavy days.

Especially on the heavy days.

Year three reminded me that healing isn’t clean.

It’s layered.

It’s emotional.

It’s unpredictable.

It’s human.

And if I’m honest…

I’m still learning how to carry it.

But what I do know is this:

I will keep making space for her.

And I will keep taking care of me.

That’s how I honor her now.

That’s how I keep her legacy alive.

Before the next hard day comes… I’m learning to prepare for it.

Not perfectly—but intentionally.

Because the truth is, the hard days will come.

And when they do, I want something to hold onto.

So here’s something I’m sitting with—and maybe you can too:

My challenge for you, dear reader, is to think about those hard days before they come.

What’s your plan for the next hard day?

Not when it hits—but before.

Write it down.

Keep it somewhere you can reach.

Let it hold you

when your emotions feel heavier than your thoughts.

And then ask yourself this—

how do you care for yourself when those moments arrive?

Because hard days will come. That’s part of life.

But they don’t have to take you down with them.

We still have work to do.

We still have light to shine.

Happy new day to you.

Happy Birthday Mom.

Just Gesai 🤍

Still healing. Still growing.