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You know, I miss the way things used to be, when everything felt right and simple. I keep looking at old photos and remembering all our happy moments, but it just makes everything hurt more. Sometimes I wonder if time really does heal everything, you know?

I'm learning to embrace this journey of healing, and yes, it's difficult, and yes, it hurts sometimes. But I'm choosing to rise above the pain, to believe in my own strength. I don't have all the answers, but I know I'm growing, I'm learning, I'm becoming.

Every moment of my grief has been dissected, analyzed, judged. They watch me try to heal, they watch me try to breathe, they watch me try to live. My pain has become their entertainment, my tears their headlines.

When I was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, I remember working in the garden with my mother. She was very, very particular about how things should be done. The neighbors would sometimes come by, but we didn't talk much, just kept to our work.

Yesterday was my art show, the biggest one of my life. Mom came, beaming with pride, taking photos of every piece. But Dad? He said he was "too busy" with Mason's soccer practice. Some things never change, I guess.

I sat at my kitchen table this morning, staring at the birthday card I'd bought for Cassie. Three weeks early, as always. Churchill rubbed against my legs as I debated whether to mail it or add it to the drawer of unsent letters and unspoken words.

I wet myself when I was pregnant. my husband looked at me with disgust and slapped me across the face.

Sometimes I just sit here, staring at my phone, wanting to reach out to friends but feeling so, so empty inside. Even typing a simple message feels like climbing a mountain. Everything takes so much energy these days.