Holding the Wave

This month explores

Grief comes in waves. Sudden. Vast. Sometimes without warning. A song on the radio. A smell in someone else's kitchen. A pregnant woman in the grocery store. And just like that, you are underwater again, in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday. This month is not about stopping the waves. The waves are not the problem. The waves are the love, still moving. Love does not become smaller because it has more than one place to land. They rise because something real happened to you. Whether your heart carries one story or many, your grief belongs here. Your body and your heart are still learning how to live around the shape of what was lost, and the love that remains. What we are practicing this month is not control. It is trust. Trust that the wave will rise. Trust that it will also pass. Trust that you can cry in the car at a red light and still drive home. Trust that you can fall apart at 3 a.m. and still get up at 7. You are not coming undone. You are grieving. And grieving is a sacred kind of motion. Some waves belong to one memory. Some arrive carrying many. You do not have to separate them here. When the wave finds you this month, and it will, try to remember: you do not have to fight it. You only have to breathe through it. In, slow. Out, slower. Hand on your heart. Feet on the floor. The wave is not bigger than you. It is just love, looking for somewhere to go. Let it rise. Let it pass. You are still here. You are still a mother. You are not alone.