Tag Archives: grief

Happy Heavenly Birthday Dad

Grief and growth, Healing journey,

Hey Sweets,

Today is my dad’s first heavenly birthday.

And if I’m being real, my heart feels… complicated. Not just because he’s gone, but because of what his presence and absence meant throughout my life.

I wouldn’t call my dad present when I was younger. In fact, I spent years angry at him, labeling him a deadbeat. And honestly? He was. As much as I wouldn’t use that word now, it was the truth back then. He wasn’t there for the birthdays, the breakdowns, or the big moments that shaped me. I learned how to live without him, and by the time he tried to come back around, I had already built a life without space for him in it.

He started making an effort in my late twenties. When I turned 27, he threw me and my sister a birthday party. I didn’t know what to do with that. I appreciated it, but I was already a mom of two. I was busy. I was guarded. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t make it easy for him. I wasn’t sure he had earned the access he was trying to get back.

Shortly after that, he got sick.

We lived in different states, and again, he became an afterthought.

That’s hard to say, but it’s real.

Still, last year, I made it to his bedside for his birthday. I said the words I needed to say. I told him Happy Birthday. I told him I loved him. I told him I forgave him. And I pray, deeply, that he heard me. That even in his fading body, he felt the love I brought with me. That he knew I meant every word.

In his death, I learned more about my father than I ever knew in life.

The church was full for his funeral, so full it felt like standing room only. I sat there listening to people share stories about him that made me pause. His stepchildren spoke about him with so much love and admiration. I saw photos I’d never seen before. Heard laughter and memories that never included me. And bitterness… yeah, it crept in.

It was hard to hear about how present he was for them.

Hard not to compare.

Hard not to ask, why not me?

But as I listened, really listened, I also started to understand.

I learned about his love story with his wife and the life he tried to build. And even though it doesn’t excuse everything, it gave me clarity. In that clarity, bitterness gave way to compassion.

I saw him not just as the father who failed me, but as a flawed man who tried.

Tried to love in the best way he knew how.

Tried to show up, even if it was late.

Tried to find his place in my world again.

His death took a toll on me. One I didn’t expect.

In a way, it felt like I lost him twice. The first time in childhood when he wasn’t there, and the second time when he left this earth for good. That second loss stung more than I ever imagined it would.

I know I wasn’t the only one carrying the weight.

I have a lot of siblings, and we all have our own stories. None of us experienced him the same way. We all carry different pieces of the puzzle—some painful, some tender, some incomplete. I hold space for their stories too. For the love, the anger, the grief, the confusion. Whatever they feel is valid. The blessing in all of this is that I have them. That we have each other.

And I know how this may sound to most people.

Trust me, I was just as shocked at the pain I felt in my chest when I got the news. The way I cried. The way I still cry. I often imagined his death when I was younger and swore I wouldn’t shed a tear for a stranger. I meant it, too. Tupac’s “Dear Mama” was my anthem and my truth for a long time.

But when it happened, that “stranger” felt like a part of me I didn’t know was still holding on.

And those tears came without hesitation.

So today, I just want to say:

Happy first heavenly birthday, Dad.

I wish we had more time. I wish I had gotten to know you sooner. But I’m grateful for the little moments we did have. For the party. For the effort. For the small ways you tried.

I miss what we didn’t get.

I’m grateful for what we did.

And I truly do forgive you.

I hope you felt my love that day.

I hope you hear me now.

With love,

Your daughter.

A Note to My Siblings:

To all of you—my siblings—I just want you to know that I see you. I feel you. I hold space for every story, every ache, every memory you carry. We didn’t all experience him the same way, but we share the impact of who he was and who he wasn’t.

Whatever you’re feeling today—whether it’s peace, pain, or a mix of both—you’re not alone. I’m grateful that through him, I have you. That even in the brokenness, there’s still something beautiful: us.

The Duality of Life Right Now

Faith and Resilience, Grief and growth, Healing journey, , , , ,

Hey Sweets,

I’ve been sitting with some hard emotions lately. Not because something new has happened, but because life has finally quieted enough for the feelings I’ve been carrying to speak up. That’s the tricky part about healing. It doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it shows up in the stillness, in those soft spaces where you’re no longer distracted by survival.

I’ve been thinking about what it means to carry conflicting emotions at once. How you can be sure of a decision and still mourn what it cost you. How you can be grateful for a new beginning and still ache for what’s no longer an option.

I’ve been living in that tension for a while now, quietly and deeply, and I think it’s time I gave it language.

After my hysterectomy, I told everyone I felt fine. And I mostly did. I was cancer-free, healthy, and focused on getting back to myself. But what I didn’t say out loud was how heavy it felt to close a door I didn’t even want open anymore.

I had already made peace with not having more children, but the finality of it brought up a quiet kind of grief. I wasn’t mourning a future I had planned, but the loss of possibility. That unexpected ache.

And as a single woman, that grief got tangled with something else: anxiety. How do I share this with someone new? Will I still be seen as whole?

Logically, I know I am. But emotions don’t always follow logic. Some days, I feel grounded in who I am. Other days, I sit with the ache and let it be what it is.

That same practice of letting things speak led me to take FMLA. I needed rest, badly. But rest felt radical. Almost reckless.

When survival mode is your default, slowing down feels like rebellion. Even with support, I still wrestled with guilt, fear, and the what-ifs. Would I fall behind? Could I afford the pause?

But I also knew I couldn’t afford not to. Choosing to rest reminded me that being human is reason enough. That I don’t have to prove I’m worthy of rest. That I don’t have to burn out just to be taken seriously.

Lately, I’ve also been mourning the loss that comes with setting boundaries, the ones that protect my peace but cost me comfort.

It’s strange how something so necessary can still break your heart a little. Letting go of dynamics, people, or patterns that once felt familiar, even if they were harmful, comes with grief.

Some days, I feel strong and clear. Other days, I grieve what I thought would work if I just held on a little longer. I’m learning that loving myself out loud won’t always feel like a celebration. Sometimes, it feels like silence. Like distance. Like starting over.

But it’s still love.
It’s still becoming.
It’s still choosing me.

What I know now is that duality doesn’t mean confusion. It means truth.

I can miss what I left behind and still know I was right to walk away.
I can hold gratitude and grief in the same breath.
I can be proud of my growth and still feel the weight of it.

And to you, my sweets, if you’re feeling torn between what you had to release and what you’re stepping into, I hope you know there is nothing wrong with you. There is no timeline for making peace with your own decisions. You are allowed to cry over the things you had to let go of. You are allowed to miss what you outgrew. You are allowed to feel sad about choosing yourself, even when you know it was the right thing.

You are not broken for feeling more than one thing at once. You are becoming. And becoming takes courage. You are doing better than you think.

With love,
Tru

This Sh*t Is Hard, But Healing Anyway

Faith and Resilience, Grief and growth, Healing journey, self love, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

This week I really wanted to say F**k this sh*t. I hope that wasn’t too off-putting, but I have to show up as myself if this is going to mean anything in the long run. As I’ve been rereading what I’ve written over the past couple of weeks, one thing has been weighing on my heart. While I’m proud of the words I’ve shared and the space I’ve created here, I don’t want to paint healing as this perfect, magical journey full of positivity. I want to be raw. I want to be honest. Healing—real healing—is so much harder than we often talk about. It’s like climbing a mountain with no clear end in sight. Every step feels heavy, as though the air gets thinner with each move forward. Emotionally, it’s exhausting—the constant battle between wanting to stop and knowing you can’t. Physically, it feels like carrying a backpack full of stones, with no chance to put it down. You’re just hoping the summit is somewhere up there, beyond the clouds.

This week in particular has been one of those weeks where the weight of the journey felt unbearable. My anxiety has been through the roof. It’s been this constant buzz in my head, this feeling that I can’t escape my own thoughts. I’ve been stuck in a loop of overthinking, second-guessing everything, and questioning whether I’m even on the right path. Imposter syndrome decided to join the party, whispering in my ear that maybe I’m not the person who should be writing this blog. Who am I to share my journey? Who am I to give advice? These thoughts have slowed me down, made me question my own value, and pushed me into this spiral of self-doubt.

And then there’s the anger. Oh, the anger. I’ve hit moments this week where I’ve been so mad—mad that I even have to go through this process. Why do I have to be the one to heal? Why do I have to process all this pain and carry all this weight? Why can’t I simply exist without constantly feeling the need to fix what’s broken? It’s frustrating. And if I’m being honest, it’s not just frustration. Sometimes it turns into resentment. Resentment toward people, toward events, toward things that happened years ago but still have a hold on me today. It feels unfair—and maybe it is. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s mine to deal with.

I’ve also felt the heaviness of grief this week. Grief for the version of me that was hurt. Grief for the things I’ve lost along the way. Grief for the life I thought I’d have by now. Healing isn’t just about moving forward; it’s about learning how to carry the pain with you as you climb. And some days, that weight feels so heavy that you wonder if you can take another step.

But here’s the thing: as hard as this week has been, as much as I’ve felt like I’m walking through fire, I know that this process is necessary. I know that every tear, every anxious thought, every moment of anger and doubt—it’s all leading me somewhere. Somewhere better. Somewhere brighter. I may not see it right now, but I know deep down that this work matters. That I’m building something stronger, something unshakable.

Anxiety tried to steal this week from me, but it didn’t win. When I felt myself spiraling, I prayed quietly—it was all I could hold onto. And despite everything, I’m still here. I’m still writing this blog, still showing up for myself, still doing the work. It doesn’t look perfect. It doesn’t feel good. But it’s happening. I’m still posting on social media, promoting my business, and handling what needs to be done. Even when it feels like I’m dragging myself through the motions, I’m doing it. And that counts for something.

This journey isn’t just about healing; it’s about learning how to live in the in-between spaces. The spaces where progress is messy, where growth hurts, where the weight of everything feels almost too much to bear. It’s about finding a way to keep going even when it feels like you’re standing still.

If this resonates with you, I want you to know this: you’re not alone. Healing is messy. It’s painful. It’s unfair and frustrating and exhausting. But it’s also worth it. It’s worth every tear, every moment of doubt, every step forward and every step back. Because at the end of the day, this journey isn’t about perfection. It’s about progress. It’s about becoming the version of yourself who can look back and say, “I did that. I climbed that mountain.”

If you’re in the thick of it right now, carrying the weight of it all, remember this: struggling doesn’t make you weak. You’re strong for continuing to climb. Keep going, sweets. You’re not alone. You’re never alone.

I’d love to hear about your journey too—share your thoughts or experiences in the comments below. Your stories inspire me as much as I hope mine inspire you.

With grace,
Tru

This Sober Girl Eats

Healing journey, self love, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sometimes, life forces me to confront the things I’d rather avoid. Right now, that thing is food. Food isn’t just sustenance; it’s comfort, distraction, and, at times, a crutch. As I’ve completely let go of weed and alcohol, I’ve noticed myself leaning on food more—and I’m actively trying to untangle the why behind it all.

My relationship with food feels deeply tied to how I see myself. After my surgery, I was so proud of the weight I lost. For the first time in a long time, I felt confident looking in the mirror. I saw a version of myself I hadn’t seen in years, and it gave me hope. But that confidence didn’t last. Grief has been knocking, and old habits are creeping back in. I catch myself turning to food to fill the void left by emotions I’m still learning to carry. I’m seeing the weight return, along with the familiar sting of not liking what I see in the mirror. It feels like I’m slipping further from the person I’ve worked so hard to become.

Becoming completely sober has been one of my biggest victories, but it hasn’t come without challenges. Those substances were my go-to ways of coping, and letting them go has left an emptiness I wasn’t ready to face. Food has stepped in to fill that gap. It’s become my way of numbing the pain, grief, and anxiety that can feel too overwhelming to sit with. I’m realizing, though, that the weight I’m carrying isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. It’s the weight of unresolved grief, unmet expectations, and unspoken self-criticism.

Every bite can feel like a quick fix, a fleeting moment of comfort that’s quickly replaced by guilt. I look at myself in the mirror and feel a mix of disappointment and shame. The version of me I want to see feels so far away, and I’m struggling to believe I’ll ever find her again. But as much as I wrestle with these feelings, I’m learning to confront them rather than run from them.

This isn’t about perfection or getting it all right at once. It’s about peeling back the layers and addressing the real reasons I turn to food when life feels hard. I’m starting to recognize that I use food not just to cope but to avoid—to avoid sitting with emotions that feel too heavy, to avoid the discomfort of truly seeing myself as I am, flaws and all. But avoiding doesn’t make the feelings go away. It just pushes them down until they demand my attention.

As I’m working through this, I’m learning to give myself grace. Grace, for me, means understanding that my body, like my emotions, is fighting to cope with a huge change. These changes come with side effects that aren’t easy to navigate. Grace means recognizing that my body is doing the best it can to support me, even when it doesn’t feel like it. It’s forgiving myself for the ways I’ve coped and allowing room for growth without judgment. Grace reminds me to honor the journey and give myself permission to feel and adjust as I go. It’s the reminder that I don’t have to get everything right to be worthy of the love and care I give to others—and to myself.

Now, I’m focusing on making different choices. I’m practicing pausing before I reach for food and asking myself what I really need in that moment. Is it comfort? Connection? Rest? Sometimes, it’s as simple as taking a deep breath and reminding myself that I am enough, just as I am. Other times, it’s harder, and I still find myself turning to food. But even in those moments, I choose not to beat myself up. Progress, for me, looks like recognizing where I am and committing to one small step forward.

Sweets, I want you to know you’re not alone in this. If you’re struggling with food too, here’s what’s been helping me. Before I grab something to eat, I try to pause and ask myself if I’m really hungry or if something else is going on. Naming the feeling sometimes helps me break the cycle. Writing things down has also been a game changer. When I journal what I’m feeling, it gives me the space to notice patterns and understand my triggers. I also try to plan ahead, keeping snacks nearby that won’t leave me feeling worse later. And when the urge to eat comes up, I remind myself to breathe, call a friend, or even just step outside for some air. None of it’s perfect, but every small choice makes a difference.

The most important thing I’m learning is to be kind to myself. If I slip up, it’s not the end of the world. I remind myself of the progress I’ve made and focus on the next step forward. And when it feels too big to handle alone, I lean on the people I trust to remind me I don’t have to do this by myself.

It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling, Sweets. This isn’t about being perfect or fixing everything at once. It’s about taking small steps and showing up for yourself in ways that matter. Every day is a new chance to start again, and you deserve all the love and grace you give to everyone else. Choosing sobriety has shown me my own strength, and even though it’s hard, I know it’s worth it. That same strength is helping me tackle my relationship with food. Remember, your worth isn’t tied to the weight you carry—physically or emotionally. You’re defined by the strength it takes to face yourself with honesty and compassion. We’re in this together, and I’m rooting for you.

-Tru

Farewell, 2024: Reflecting on a Year of Pain, Growth, and Gratitude

Faith and Resilience, Grief and growth, Healing journey, self love, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Hey Sweets,

As I sit here reflecting on the past year, I feel a whirlwind of emotions—grief, growth, gratitude, and everything in between. 2024 was a year that stretched me in ways I didn’t think possible. It was a year of deep pain and profound lessons, but also of unexpected joy, strengthened faith, and a clearer vision of the life I want to live.

The year began with me in recovery from an emergency hysterectomy, a life-altering event that left me grappling with physical and emotional changes. Shortly after, I received news that could have been devastating: I had cancer of the appendix. But even before the diagnosis, God had already spoken healing over my life. By the time I heard the words, the battle had already been won, and I was cancer-free.

In the midst of recovery, my heart was tested. A relationship I thought would be my last came to an abrupt end, broken by betrayal. It was a painful reminder that not every connection is meant to come with you into your next season. Grieving that loss, alongside the changes in my body and the life I thought I was building, was overwhelming.

This year also brought the passing of my father, a loss that shook me to my core. It wasn’t just his death I mourned—it was the dreams I had attached to him, the future I envisioned with him in it, and the version of myself I thought he’d see.

That grief layered on top of the loss I was still carrying from 2022, when my aunt passed away. Grief isn’t linear. It doesn’t come in tidy waves or leave when you want it to. It has a way of showing up when you least expect it, demanding to be felt.

This year taught me to stop running from grief and to make room for it. I learned that grieving isn’t just about mourning what’s gone; it’s about letting go of what could have been and finding peace in what is.

But 2024 wasn’t all grief and loss. It was also a year of joy, community, and growth.

I grew closer to God in ways I hadn’t experienced before. Through the challenges, I leaned on Him more deeply, and He revealed His presence in every step of the journey. Whether it was declaring me cancer-free before a diagnosis, guiding me through heartbreak, or showing me the beauty of stillness, God reminded me that I am never alone.

This year, I also had the privilege of holding my first back-to-school giveback. Seeing the joy and gratitude in the faces of children and their families reminded me of the power of community and giving. It was a moment that filled my heart and reminded me why I do what I do.

Every birthday this year was a celebration of life, not just for me but for the people I love. Despite the challenges, I found joy in those moments, knowing how precious each day truly is.

And while some relationships came to an end, others grew stronger. I realized that not every loss is a setback; sometimes, it’s God clearing the way for deeper, more meaningful connections.

On Christmas Eve, as I looked around my home, I was overwhelmed by gratitude. For the first time, I saw it clearly: I am living in an answered prayer. Stability, peace, and a safe space for my family—these were once distant dreams, and now they are my reality.

Sweets, Remember This

As we step into 2025, let’s remember that rest is just as important as action. Slowing down doesn’t mean giving up—it means prioritizing peace, stability, and the blessings we’ve already received.

For me, 2025 will be a year of intentional rest and reflection. I’ve decided to bow out of the rat race and make Sundays sacred—a day to reset, recharge, and honor God’s provision.

Wherever you are in your journey, take a moment to pause, look around, and give thanks. You may find that you’re living in parts of your answered prayers right now.

Here’s to a new year filled with grace, growth, and the courage to rest.

Thanks for reading,
Tru