Becoming the Person Who Shows Up

I was a little girl the first time I understood what grief asked of me. My great uncle had just passed away, and his daughter, a few years younger than me, was suddenly carrying a loss far bigger than either of us could understand.

At the funeral, my mother pulled me aside and explained that she was hurting. I didn't know what to do with that. But I knew I could play with her. Not because that's what kids do at funerals. But because I wanted her to have one afternoon where she didn't have to be the girl whose father had died.

I didn't know it then. But that afternoon was the beginning of something.

It's what I spent my whole life leaning into.

Many years later, I was volunteering at a women's event at my church. I introduced myself to a woman and asked how long she'd been coming to our church.

She smiled lightly and told me it was her first Sunday. She'd come with a friend who was waiting for her. I joked that she had picked the perfect Sunday to visit and asked what brought her there.

She paused.

Then she looked at me and said, "I wasn't planning on sharing this, but my son died six months ago." A friend had encouraged her to start going to church, and they agreed to visit a few over the coming months.

I thanked her for sharing something so deeply human. Then I asked his name. And she began to tell me about him. Who he was. What he loved. What she missed. She told me that saying his name felt like love. She was grateful for having the space to talk about her grief.  

I have carried that conversation with me ever since.

Instinctively, I understand what grief asks of me. Not because someone taught me. Not because I have the right words. But because somewhere in me, I know that what people need most in their hardest moments isn't advice.

It's witness.

Over the years I have sat with people through all kinds of loss. The death of a parent. A child. A marriage. A dream. The version of life they thought they were going to have.

And I've noticed something.

Most people don't need someone to fix their grief. They need someone willing to stay. To remember the day of their loss.  Someone willing to hear the name again. To hold the questions that don't have answers. To sit in the silence without trying to fill it.

That's why I'm here.

And that's why The Grieving Optimist exists.

Not to rush healing. Not to explain away pain. Not to say that time heals all wounds. 

But to create a space where grief can be spoken out loud.

A space where loved ones are remembered by name.

A space where people feel less alone in what they're carrying.

A space where someone is simply sitting with them.

Grief deserves more than platitudes and timelines. Loss doesn't follow a schedule and healing isn't linear. Somewhere out there is a mother who needs to say her son's name out loud, and a little girl at a funeral who needs someone to play with her, and a person sitting alone in the middle of the night wondering if what they're feeling will ever make sense.

This is for them. This is for you.

I don't have all the answers. I'm not a therapist or a grief counselor. I'm just a person who shows up. And I'd like to show up for you here, in every episode, with honest conversations, real stories, and the unshakeable belief that grief and hope can coexist.

That you don't have to choose between the joys of life and honoring what you lost.

This is not about moving on, it’s about the path ahead.