The Night I Didn’t Reach for Her

On my way home tonight after a work function I was just thinking about how so much of the past several years has been consumed by survival, grief, and the why of it all. What the hell was good karma if everything I had given still brought me here?

Then I thought of her.

I wanted to text her today, but I didn’t.

For the first time in seven years, I actually thought about hanging out with somebody else. None of that happened tonight, but the thought was there and I guess that means I’m moving on because I actually humored the thought of hanging out with someone new.

I miss her.

I miss my son a lot.

I miss my dad a lot too.

Not in the same way of course because my dad’s dead.

My son is very much alive but sometimes I feel further from him than daddy and I hate even thinking that. I know he would love these people though. I know he would love hearing me laugh again.

And tonight I laughed. I mean really laughed.

The kind of loud laugh that has always demanded the room when it’s genuine. The kind that used to make people look over because it filled the whole room before I even realized I was doing it.

And tonight I caught myself doing it more than once.

Not in a “pick me” kind of way. In a “she’s really in there again” kind of way.

I met someone tonight that seemed genuinely interested in who I was.

I sat next to them and for a little while it felt good to just laugh and exist.

They may be completely unaware of it, but that made me remember I’m still a person outside of grief.

And I noticed it in a subtle way, like the way rain starts falling on a tin roof. Quiet, but beautiful.

I talked about my children, but not in a sad way. Just little blips because they are a part of me, but they are not my whole story. I talked about what I was learning, what I loved, my work, my dreams. I made jokes. I used my brain and I didn’t once need to feel seen by naming my grief out loud.

I realized I was interested in other people’s responses because I was genuinely interested in them, not because I was desperately searching for proof that I was likable or worthy or not “too much.”

I think that changes everything.

Because I see me now.

Which finally means I can actually see other people too.

And I think that’s where genuine connection comes from. Friendships. Networking. Community. Maybe even love.

Tonight felt familiar in a way I haven’t felt in years.

Like I somehow wandered back into myself.

Like the girl at the family beach house with sun-kissed shoulders, blonde hair in the wind, laughing too loud at absolutely nothing and everything all at once.

Wild as hell. Genuine. Fully safe to be fully present.

I noticed people’s moods shift tonight. I still notice those things. I probably always will. But I didn’t absorb them.

I didn’t immediately assume someone being uncomfortable meant I had done something wrong or needed to become smaller to make the room more comfortable.

And when somebody seemed put off by my bold, loud, heartfelt presence, I realized something I taught my children their entire lives: it wasn’t about me.

Everybody has something. Everybody carries something.

I’ve told them that for years, but tonight I finally understood it for myself.

No one needs to fully understand my pain for it to be real.

And I don’t need everyone to see my wounds in order for me to deserve connection, friendship, laughter, or peace.

Because of her, I know now that I can love that deep even if it hurts like hell. And Lord knows it hurt like hell.

But tonight, for the first time in seven years, I didn’t picture her face when I thought about what I was gonna do tomorrow.

For the first time in years I thought about tomorrow instead of the strategy for the next minute.

And I think that’s progress.

Even if it makes me a little sad.

Peanut