The Two Halves of My Day

 As the day begins, I look forward to starting my office work.

I enjoy what I do. Every meeting, every task, every brainstorming session feels like progress. Meetings aren't just about solving problems or moving projects forward—they're also about people, small moments of connection. Before I know it, the workday is over.

The evening unfolds in its own familiar pace. Some days I head out for a bike ride. Other days I cook myself a meal or unwind with a television show. Life carries on through these ordinary rituals, and for a while, they are enough to keep me present.

And then the silence arrives.

Memories of my mom sitting quietly in bed, lying there, saying very little, begin to flash before me.

The endless have's, should have's, and could have's of grief come rushing in.

Some days, out of nowhere, I feel an incredible sense of gratitude. I feel motivated to move forward with courage, live with purpose.  At other times, everything feels meaningless.

I think back on my day—how I was happy, engaged, even cheerful. I biked. I cooked. I laughed in meetings. I watched a show and forgot about everything for an hour. And then I find myself questioning my own emotions. How could I feel so normal? How could I laugh? And why does the weight of grief return so suddenly?

And yet, as painful as those moments are, they also carry a strange warmth.

The sadness hurts, but it allows me to still feel close to her. I wouldn't choose the pain, but I wouldn't want to lose that connection either.

I don't know where any of this is headed.

Maybe grief isn't asking me to choose between joy and sorrow. Maybe it's teaching me that both can exist in the same day, sometimes in the very same hour.

I'm still learning how to hold both.