Surviving Grief

🌧️  Coming Through the Storm — Even When It Hurts "I will use all my wisdom and power to come through this well." Today, that line felt like a whisper from deep inside me. A reminder that even when I feel weak, I am not empty. Even in pain, I still have something left. Grief is tearing at me again. I miss his presence so deeply — it feels like a physical weight. I keep listening, hoping to feel him near. But the silence echoes. And yet, I'm here. Still breathing and still writing. Isaiah 40:29 says, "He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak." That's what I'm leaning on today. The wisdom God has poured into me through love, loss, and faith. The power that lives in my soul, even when I don't feel strong. I don't have to "fix" my grief. I have to live through it. Trusting that even this pain is part of a process. A birthing of something more profound. Something sacred. 💔When the Grief Hits Hard Again Today hurts...

🕊️The Unknown Future “The future is not yet ours perhaps it never will be if it comes it may come wholly different from what we have foreseen let us shut our eyes then to that which god hides from us and keeps in reserve in the treasures of his deep counsels let us worship without seeing let us be silent let us abide in peace.”  —Francois De Salignac De La Mothe Fenelon  💭 Drifting into the Unknown Today’s reflection from  Healing After Loss  struck a deep chord in me. It began with this powerful truth: “The future is not yet ours; perhaps it never will be.” That’s a hard thing to accept—especially in grief. I catch myself drifting into the past, holding tight to memories… Then suddenly, I leap ahead, trying to predict a future that feels too empty, too unknown. And I worry over what might still come. I ache for what could’ve been. 🔄 Wasted Energy, Heavy Burdens Reading further, I realized how much energy I’ve spent imagining the worst. As if grief alone weren’t e...

Bringing Him Home 🌅 The Funeral Home Today, Bryce and I went to the funeral home. We picked up the death certificates. We brought Mark home. They handed him to us in a black box placed inside a small tote bag. So ordinary. So final. It’s strange how something as enormous as a person’s life can be carried in your hands. Bryce wants to buy an urn—something he can paint himself and keep close. But for now, Mark remains in the black box. Simple. Quiet. Heavy in more ways than one. 🙏 Healing After Loss After we returned home, I opened  Healing After Loss . Today’s reading said: “The sky is the daily bread of the eye.” And I instantly thought of Mark. He loved the sky. Sunsets. Sunrises. Stars and planets. Eclipses and meteor showers. He had a passion for astronomy and was always taking photos—especially of sunsets over Flathead Lake. He said that’s when he felt most at peace. Maybe that’s where I’ll look for him now. In the deep blues before dawn. In the fire-orange brush of evening l...

As Long As I Breathe:   A Grief Journey Begins Introduction: Why I'm Writing On June 14, 2025, my husband, Mark Anthony Fiorentino, took his last breath after a long and courageous battle with Stage 4 Metastatic Melanoma. His strength, love, and deep sense of responsibility to our family never wavered—not even in the face of pain. Today, I begin this blog. I've been sharing grief videos on Flip, but I knew Mark would want me to take this further. This space is where I'll share memories, sorrow, gratitude, and everything in between. I hope someone out there finds a little light in the shadows.   The Love We Shared Mark wasn't just my husband—he was my warrior, my partner of 30 years, and the one who brought me coffee in bed even when I was moody. He held this family together with quiet strength and stubborn determination. He never had the opportunity to have a biological child. Never met grandchildren. Some of his dreams went unfulfilled. And yet—he gave us everythi...