Surviving Grief

  🏡 When the House No Longer Holds Them "In desperate hope, I go and search for her in all the corners of my house... But infinite is thy mansion, my Lord, and seeking her I have come to thy door." —Rabindranath Tagore 🕯️ My Mother's Presence Lingered After my mother passed, her home felt like hers. Every room whispered of her presence— The kitchen still smelled of her cooking. Her closet still held the scent of her perfume. I thought cleaning out her closet would bring some relief. It didn’t. Her spirit clung to every inch of that house. I wasn’t just letting go of things—I was letting go of her space, her sanctuary. 📦 Letting Go of Mark’s Belongings When Mark died, I handled it differently. I began sorting through his things right away. Bryce helped. Today, he brought Mark’s clothes to Goodwill. It wasn’t easy. But we both knew that clearing space might help us breathe again. 🤍 Why It Felt Different I kept wondering: Why was it harder to leave my mother’s house than...

🌅 The Quiet After Goodbye "He could feel a hand on his shoulder. "All right," he said softly. "All right." He stood at his walker. He could sense eyes staring at him. "Goodbye," he said to the coffin. He turned on his walker and began to move away. It was a day of sun, warm, bright, and a soft wind from the west. The earth was green. The sun felt good on his face and hands."  —TERRY KAY  There's a strange silence that follows the funeral — a holy stillness, like creation itself has paused in reverence. The moment feels suspended, sacred, unbearable. And somehow beautiful. 📜 Rituals That Hold Us The rituals help. They give form to the chaos. A service. A reading. A closing prayer. These traditions remind us what to do when we no longer know what to feel. No, rituals don’t heal us. But they hold us until we can begin to heal. And maybe that’s enough. I am learning to be held. Learning to let the simple moments carry me. Sometimes, the s...

🕊️If You Love Me, Let Me Go Grief, Memory, and the Things That Bring Them Back Today's "Healing After Loss "  began with a powerful line:   "If you love me, let me go."  It reminded me of Olivia Newton-John's heartfelt song  "If You Love Me (Let Me Know),"  a song about love, longing, and the silent pain of feeling unloved. "Before too long, I built my world around you… If you love me, let it be. If you don't, then set me free.” Martha Hickman reflected on how we might be projecting our own needs and desires onto what we believe our loved ones would want. She suggested that it's all conjecture—our pain shaping the narrative of their absence. But I gently disagree. 🐦 Grief Is a Soundtrack, a Scent, a Spark For me, grief is more than reflection. It’s a soundtrack. A scent. A shadow. A frog on a shelf. A birdhouse in the tree. A coffee cup that’s no longer filled. These simple things bring my loved ones back to me. Not physically— ...

🕊️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...