I didn't reclaim joy by trying to feel better or by forcing optimism into a season that didn't deserve it. Grief doesn't work that way. Life kept moving, responsibilities stayed intact, and there wasn't space to pause everything just because something hurt. Joy showed up quietly and without permission. It was unplanned laughter. Music turned up too loud in the car. Moments with my kids that pulled me fully into the present without asking me to explain myself first. I didn't chase joy. I let it sit next to the grief when it appeared and trusted that both could exist at the same time. Grief narrowed my tolerance for nonsense and sharpened my appreciation for what actually matters. Joy was never a destination. It became oxygen I didn't realize I needed most when things were heaviest.

Grief does not always arrive loudly. Sometimes it comes quietly in disappointment, in unmet expectations, in seasons that don't unfold the way you envisioned. I've learned that grief is not only about loss of people; it can also be the loss of certainty, identity, or timing. In one of my most reflective seasons, I realized that life would not pause for me to process everything. I had responsibilities. I had goals. I had dreams still unfolding. Instead of waiting to feel "better," I began practicing small acts of joy intentional pauses, moments of gratitude, protecting my energy, and choosing discipline over despair. I reclaimed joy by redefining it. Joy did not mean everything was perfect. It meant I was still grounded. Still growing. Still becoming. Faith anchored me. Reflection strengthened me. And purpose carried me forward. Grief and hope can coexist. I learned that holding both is not weakness it is maturity. And in choosing to move forward without compromising my integrity, I found a deeper, quieter joy than I had ever known before.

When I was about six months sober, I lost my brother suddenly. It was devastating. I hadn't talked with my sister in years because she didn't want to speak to me because of how I was living my life. I was finally doing well, was still in treatment in a half-way house, and my family was becoming proud of me again. I called my sister and we talked for hours. It brought us back together and reminded us that tomorrow isn't promised to any of us. Hold those you love close to your heart. Always say I love you when getting off the phone, leaving to go somewhere, and before you go to bed.

Grief has no timeline. It doesn't matter how much time has passed, what you are doing, how you are doing or where you are in your life at the time. Any memory is subject to triggering grief, it moves in waves. Grief has no deadlines, that's part of life, that's being human. We deal with it as the waves hit. Hope and grief are not opposites, they live within the same breath, they walk hand in hand. Grief reminds us of what we have lost or been through and hope reminds us we can keep going.

My family experienced an entire chapter of grief. We lost 6 close family members in 9 years. My kids were in elementary school when the first loss hit, my father-in-law. He was sick but his passing came so much quicker than anticipated. I was away on a business trip and flew home in the middle of the night. It rocked our world. The next was my uncle, who was like a grandfather to me. He didn't live close and I was not able to be with him at the end. Less than a year later, my oldest sister passed from an unknown cause in her sleep. With each occurrence, the impact was compounded. The following year, my mom passed as the result of a tragic fall. Again, sudden and unexpected and devastating. My mother-in-law passed the following year. She was diagnosed with cancer, but literally decided that it was time to be with her husband, asked for his picture to hold and passed. I was silently somewhat proud of her for taking such control of her life and leaving on her own terms. She just decided it was her time. The last of the horrible series was my sister-in-law, who was killed by a drunk driver. She was 45 with a wonderful life ahead of her. A devoted husband and 4 kids who adored her. This one cut very deep for so many reasons. We felt the loss of such a young life. We struggled with the injustice of the circumstances. I can honestly say that as a result of these tragic losses in such a short time, our family is closer. Every day is a gift to me. My gratitude for the privileges of having this life — even when things are tough — runs deep. I'm so blessed to have had these remarkable people in my life and in the lives of my children. Each of them left a mark that doesn't fade. We never know how much time we have on this earth. That truth eventually stopped paralyzing me and started propelling me. It's part of what led me to become a hypnotist and neurolinguistics practitioner as my second chapter — to spend however much time I have helping others move through the hard things, the way I had to learn to do myself.