the privilege of loving this much

I’ve been mostly quiet on social media since the holidays. I stepped away without a plan, just a longing for stillness. For presence. For the tiny joys that don’t ask to be posted or explained. Beautiful meals. Long conversations. Candlelit nights. The simple, sacred rhythm of being here.

And woven through those quiet days, grief kept showing up. Grief that my parents are aging and time feels like it’s moving way too fast. Grief that my young adult children are spreading their wings and stepping into lives of their own. Grief that having everyone under one roof for the holidays is no longer a given, but a gift, fleeting and precious.

Time has a way of tugging at the heart.

I’ve been trying to hold these moments without white knuckles. Or at least notice when my grip tightens and soften again. Is it hard? Yes. Is it messy and painful? Absolutely. And still, what an enormous blessing it is to love so much that it nearly breaks my heart. What a privilege to be able to sit with both love and grief and not go under. To let sorrow move through without shutting down. To recognize that grief is not a sign of failure, but proof of a life deeply lived.

And this grief doesn’t end with the holidays. Like so many of us, I’m swimming in a sea of emotion—outrage, fear, overwhelm, powerlessness. But beneath all of it, what I keep touching is grief. Grief for my country. For humanity. For the unraveling we’re witnessing. For the ways we’re being asked to hold more than feels possible.

This is a difficult time. A tender time. A confusing time. We’re all trying to make sense of it. Trying to cope. Trying not to lose our way.

Here’s what I know, not as a theory but as a lived practice: Sitting with the grief matters.

We can’t rush past it or polish it into meaning too quickly. We need to let the waves come. To give ourselves grace. To trust that if we stay present, our footing will return. And then, when the ground steadies, even slightly—we pay attention. To the tiny joys that buoy us. To the moments of beauty that remind us we’re still alive. To the people who make us feel less alone.

Finding joy. Calling it in. Gathering with people we love. Letting community hold us when the world feels too heavy. These are not indulgences. They are how we stay human.

Wonder and awe are antidotes to despair. Creativity is medicine. Dancing in the kitchen with the volume turned up is salve for the soul. Picking up a paintbrush and silencing the noise is a way back to ourselves.

These are not escapes from the world’s pain. They are acts of resistance to cruelty, numbness, and overwhelm.

Honoring both grief and joy is how I feel whole. Authentic. True. Alive. It’s how I remember who I am, even now. Especially now.