If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve lost someone too—or you love someone who has. I’m writing from the place after loss, where things are no longer urgent and raw, but they’re not healed either. This is where I am. Still here.
This isn’t a guide or a roadmap. It’s a place to say the things that don’t get said out loud.
It’s January 2nd, and I’m seeing everyone’s 2025 recap videos—smiles and laughter, trips taken, goals met. And while I did many of those things too, it feels wrong to try to wrap a year like that into a highlight reel. A year where I lost so much. There isn’t a song that fits everything 2025 held. The words feel heavy, and somehow not enough.
It’s January 2nd, and I’m also seeing the posts about goals and fresh starts for 2026. “This is my year.” “A clean slate.” Those words don’t sit right with me. I don’t want a fresh start—unless that fresh start meant my dad would be here.
This year, I just want to learn how to carry my grief better. I want to write through it, and maybe help someone else feel less alone in theirs. I want to honor my dad and make him proud. I want to heal, slowly, and be gentle with myself—and with everyone around me.
This is my way of staying.
Still Here 