02/25/2026
The hardest day of grief isn’t the funeral.
It’s not the first anniversary, either.
None of those dates are the worst.
The hardest day is an ordinary one.
It’s the moment something good happens and you instinctively reach for your phone—only to realize there’s no one to call. No one to say, “Can you believe this?” No one to ask, “Are you proud of me?”
Or when something falls apart and there are no familiar arms to hold you, no steady voice to whisper, “I’ve got you.”
The hardest day is every day.
A Sunday afternoon that’s supposed to feel peaceful. Sunlight through the window. Life moving on outside. And inside—an ache. Grief shows up without warning, and the loss hits you as sharply as if it just happened.
You miss them.
You replay things.
You carry the weight quietly, year after year.
And still—above everything else—
you get up.
You breathe.
You keep going.
