Grief Taught Me to See Differently

There was a time when the word gratitude felt impossible. People love to offer it up as a cure-all—look for the silver lining, focus on the good, find the lesson. But when you’re living inside real loss, none of that lands. It doesn’t comfort. It doesn’t soften anything. It just reminds you of how far you feel from the person you used to be.

After Ken died, I couldn’t make sense of gratitude. Everything felt fragile, like the ground beneath me had its own annoying agenda. I wasn’t in any kind of mood to list blessings or hunt for bright spots. Survival was the win—especially in the beginning.

But slowly—almost without me noticing—something shifted. Not in some big, cinematic way. More like a quiet recalibration. I started catching small moments around the edges of my days that made me exhale a little deeper. I think because—for me—Ken lived in those moments. The way morning light hit the coffee cup we used to share. A song I hadn’t heard in years that somehow knew exactly what to say. Standing in silence in the garden he lovingly tended, looking at a full-grown sunflower he’d planted the season before.

And then there was writing. The one place that didn’t expect me to wrap anything in a bow. The page let me show up exactly as I was, messy and unsure, without asking me to be “positive.” Gratitude came back through the side door—not as a silver lining, but as a reminder. A way of staying connected to what still mattered. A way of saying: you’re still here, and there’s still something worth noticing.

These days, gratitude feels less like a practice and more like a way of seeing. It doesn’t erase what I’ve lost. It sits alongside it. It helps me stay present, grounded, and human in a world that often asks us to hurry past the things that shaped us.

If someone has made a difference in your life—especially during a hard season—tell them. Say it plainly. You never know how far your words might reach.

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