Grief implants itself quietly, not as memory alone but as a permanent presence, shaping how we breathe, love, and endure, reminding us that loss does not leave, yet neither does the love we carry forward with us always.
Category: Uncategorized
Life After Suicide Loss Is Lived in the Present Moment
Lessons From the Tufted Titmouse
This morning, I was noticing the Tufted Titmouse at my feeders. It is a small, alert bird with a soft voice and a steady presence. A symbol of healing, but not in the way people often think. It is not promising closure or answers. It tells us to keep going even when life has permanently changed.
After losing a child, life stops making sense, and grief collapses time. The future feels unreachable, and the past feels too heavy to carry. Most days are not about hope or meaning; they are about surviving the stage you are in. The Tufted Titmouse reminds us to stay present, do what the moment requires, nothing more. It isn’t suggesting that we “move on.” It invites us to survive this moment, then the next.
The bird’s small, persistent movements mirror how we, as bereaved parents, can continue living through each season. Maybe you are just surviving, fragment by fragment. But getting up and feeding yourself is showing up. Saying their name and breathing through waves that come without warning does not weaken us; it is an endurance that strengthens us.
The titmouse is also known for its song, reminding us how important it is to speak our child’s name, tell their story, and to allow our grief to have a voice. Silence can isolate us. Sharing does not mean we are stuck; it means our love did not end. It does not mean “everything happened for a reason.” But it does imply that life still has purpose, even while we carry this permanent loss.
Some days, noticing something simple in nature may feel like the only thing that can ground us. It’s a Tufted Titmouse at the feeder, a windchimes melody, a foggy morning of calm. These moments do not minimize our loss; they remind us that we are still here, even when our hearts are broken. The Titmouse teaches us to live with grief rather than resolve it. Strength is not the absence of sorrow; it is learning how to carry it.
Parenting Both Sides of Sibling Sexual Abuse
A Message From The Hummingbird
I am the mom on both sides of a complicated story. Loving one child who was sexually abused and loving the one who caused the harm.
There is no road map for navigating something like this. No clean language. No version of the path forward that does not cost something deep and painful. Some days it feels like my entire role is simply to remain standing when I feel like falling and to stay present when everything in me wants to hide. Functioning while absorbing this kind of shock is a challenge in itself.
And yet, here I am. Learning how to love without chasing, how to hold boundaries without disappearing. How to remain myself even when relationships have changed form in ways I would have never imagined.
Lately, I have been thinking about the hummingbird.
A hummingbird migrates thousands of miles relative to its size. It burns enormous energy simply to stay alive. Even hovering in place takes constant effort. It does not rest the way other birds do. It must keep moving its wings just to remain where it is.
That feels familiar.
As parents and humans navigating trauma, we expend energy just to stay standing and emotionally present. We hover. We show up. We pay attention even when everything in us wants to give up. We absorb pain and strain quietly and keep going. Like the hummingbird, we need nourishment, spiritual and emotional, because the work of staying present is exhausting.
The hummingbird symbolizes resilience after hardship. It represents the return of joy and lightness, not because things become easy, but because survival itself requires strength. It reminds us that connection does not require possession, love does not require obligation, and presence does not require control.
We can love deeply and still protect ourselves. We can hold grief and hope at the same time. We can remain connected without losing who we are, and we can stay in place without collapsing.
If you are hovering right now, barely holding yourself together, that is worth remembering! Your quiet strength counts! The energy you put into staying present matters!
Even in the most challenging seasons, strength can exist. You are not failing, you are surviving. And sometimes that is the bravest thing any of us can do.
Scooby Doo
Honestly, I never really watched cartoons. They always felt too loud and silly; I could never connect with the humor. If anything, I felt sorry for the ones everyone else laughed at. Like Elmer Fudd and Wile E. Coyote. Men who tried but failed and kept getting hurt, while the world stood around laughing.
But if I had to pick a favorite, it would be Scooby Doo. Their ghost hunting adventures were the only ones that held my attention. Maybe it was the mystery, or maybe it was the idea of unmasking the thing that scared you. Either way, this one stayed with me when the rest never did.
The Trap of Thinking You Have No Say
For anyone tired of believing they do not have a choice
Have you stopped trying because you don’t think your choices matter?
Somewhere along the way, you’ve convinced yourself that nothing you do changes anything. Maybe it was the years of fighting for peace that never came. Perhaps it was the abuse that taught you your voice did not matter. Maybe it was the exhaustion that made you numb. So you shut down and coast, letting life hit you.
You tell yourself, “This is just how things are.”
But that belief does not come from truth; it comes from survival. Survival mode does not tell the whole story.
Does staying stuck feel easier than facing yourself?
It is easier to let life drag you down than to stand up and change directions. Change requires you to look at what you tolerate, avoid, and why you keep choosing things that hurt you. This exposes the gap between the life you have and the life you want.
You might pretend you have no control, acting like the script is already written.
Why?
Because if you are powerless, you don’t have to take responsibility; you protect the pain rather than yourself.
You can take the pen back!
Life is not happening to you; you are participating in it.. Even when you are silent and afraid.
You can decide what you will and will not allow. You get to choose one small action step that moves you out of the old patterns.
You can stop reliving the same chapter and start writing something new. It does not have to be dramatic or perfect; it just has to be yours. That is the moment you’re able to take your life back, rewrite your storyline, and make it yours.
Positively Divine
What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?
This year has been one of the most unexpected beautiful years of my life, full of surprises, healing, and quiet miracles I did not always see coming.
It began with the joy of the birth of grandchild number ten and the sweet anticipation of number eleven already on the way. Every new little heartbeat in this family reminds me how wide my world is and how love continues to grow around me whether I am ready or not.
Our third short-term rental went online and stays booked. It amazes me to watch what I dreamed of into existence, and watch it take off and thrive. There is a quiet pride in that, a feeling of finally seeing hard work turn into something real.
Then came Colorado. Two weeks of pure beauty, with every turn revealing something that made me pause and breathe a little deeper. I did not realize how much I needed that trip until I was standing there, surrounded by mountains that made everything inside me feel a little clearer.
But the biggest changes this year happened within me.
After years of gut problems, I finally discovered the physical cause. That alone felt like a breakthrough I had been waiting for far too long. Therapy opened an even deeper door. I began to uncover the emotional weight I had been carrying and the trauma that had settled into my body. I started learning how to set boundaries and how to listen to the parts of myself I had ignored. I connected with my inner child, the version of me who needed comfort and understanding, and I finally began to give her that.
Along the way, I started feeling more comfortable in my own skin. Not the person I thought I was supposed to be, but the person I actually am. This shift feels real, even if it is still unfolding.
And perhaps one of the most meaningful steps I am taking this year is working on my book proposal. I’m not just dreaming about it, I’m doing it. This alone feels like reclaiming a part of myself I thought I lost.
When I look back, this year was not simply positive. It was transformative. It was a year of returning to myself in ways I never expected.
The Great Outdoors
Do you ever see wild animals?
I live in rural Arkansas, therefore I get to see a variety of “wild” animals. We have frequent deer, racoons, squirrels, ground hogs, beavers and I recently saw a red fox on the ring camera a few nights ago.
There are rumors of black panthers in our area and black bear are about a 2 hour drive from here.
But the wildest of all the animals who frequent our area are anthropoids called Tourists. Some are feral through and through and others are easily tamed with a little kindness. Without them out town wouldn’t flourish.
It Is What It Is
“It is what it is.”
I told my assistant, after spilling everything about why I had been absent,
“Hey, that’s a dismissive statement. You can’t dismiss this. It is not your fault.” He said.
Yesterday I stopped by my parents’ house to help Mom with her Facebook. After about an hour of scrolling through her activity history, and Dad complaining about how three of their specialist doctors were leaving our town for a bigger one, they ended with,
“She owes us an apology.”
I shook my head no.
They didn’t like that.
They insisted they had been wrongly accused. They brushed past the fact that they are still, even after everything, keeping contact with her abuser. Instead, they turned the extra pictures on Facebook into their own story. A story where they were the victims. A story where she had attacked them.
Dad with his angry, silent face.
Mom had her lip pulled in, as if she were bracing for battle.
“Yes, she does,” they sneered.
“Wouldn’t you want an apology if you were accused of something you didn’t do?”
I let out one of those airy laughs. The kind you do when you remember something painful. In my case, it was Dad’s accusatory text. I brushed it off again by saying,
“You have to understand how scared she is.”
And then the conversation was over.
I left feeling like I had failed her and myself.
I have never been good at ‘thinking on my toes’ when I get backed into a corner. And for some reason, my parents have always had the power to back me in that corner. Even as an adult. Even after therapy. Even after years of growth.
I think I have been dismissive of them for years without realizing it. Not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t want to face the fear I carried of them. A fear I only recently learned to name.
Therapy has helped me draw cleaner lines. It showed me that my anxieties did not begin with my ex-husband. He added to the damage, but he did not build the foundation. My parents did. Their dismissiveness shaped me long before adulthood, long before marriage, long before the trauma that came later.
My dad does not know how to love without control. His love has limits, and those limits end where his control ends.
My mom has always believed the world is against her. So it makes sense she sees her own granddaughter as just one more person out to hurt her.
And for years, I’ve repeated the exact phrase like a mantra.
“It is what it is.”
But now I know that phrase was never peace. It was resignation.
It was the sound of folding into silence.
It was the armor I wore when I didn’t yet have the language to name the wounds.
But I do now.
So no, it’s not “what it is.”
It’s what it was.
FIVE
Share five things you’re good at.
5 things I’m good at:
Number one, I am excellent at procrastinating.
Number two, I have a real talent for intentional delaying.
Number three, I can fall straight into decision paralysis without even trying.
Number four, I am skilled at task avoidance that looks a lot like deep thinking.
Number five, I somehow manage to meet the deadline anyway in a blaze of last minute glory.
When Doing the Right Thing Still Makes You Feel Like the Villain
A story about family, guilt, and the cost of choosing someone’s peace and safety
This year, I set a boundary with my parents.
We didn’t go to their house for Thanksgiving. We had it at ours instead. That might sound small to someone outside the situation, but it wasn’t. It carried years of pain, silence, and choices that should never have been mine to carry.
It wasn’t even about me this time. It was about my daughter.
There’s a story I’m not going into here, but I’ll say this much. My daughter was violated by a family member, their grandson, my son. He’s in prison now for what he did to her. But my parents still choose to stay in contact with him.
She was the one who said she didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to sit in a place that still protects the person who hurt her. And I decided to support her, choose her, and stand on her side.
It was the right thing. I know that. But it didn’t stop the fallout.
My mom didn’t speak to me for a whole week. My dad turned on the guilt, the blame, and the disappointment. Like I was the one punishing them. All I did was protect my daughter from the people who made her feel betrayed.
And still, I spiraled. I second-guessed myself. I wondered if I was being dramatic, if I had taken it too far, if I was being cruel by drawing a line.
That’s how deep the conditioning goes. That’s how beating yourself up becomes your favorite hobby.
You protect your child. You do what you know is right. And then you punish yourself for it.
Here’s how that cycle works. Here’s how the guilt gets under your skin and stays there, even when it shouldn’t.
1. You confuse guilt with being good.
You grew up thinking that if it hurts, it must mean you care. If you carry the guilt long enough, maybe it proves you’re the better person. Perhaps it means you’re nothing like the ones who hurt you. So you hold it. You nurse it. You call it empathy, but it’s not. It’s grief. It’s fear. It’s survival mode, you never got the chance to grow out of.
2. You turn on yourself before anyone else can.
It’s safer that way. You blame yourself first. You get ahead of the punishment. You run the worst-case scenario before it even happens. That way, if someone does get mad, you’re already halfway into self-destruction. You don’t have to be blindsided. You’re already bleeding. You call it control, but it’s fear disguised as preparation.
3. You were trained to carry the weight for everyone.
Keeping the peace was your job. Making things easier and smoothing things over. So when you finally make a decision that protects someone else, someone innocent, someone hurt, it still feels like betrayal. It feels like you’re letting everyone down, even when you’re the only one standing up for what’s right.
4. You think beating yourself up makes you accountable.
You think that if you suffer enough, it proves you’re not careless. That you’re not cold. That you understand the impact. But accountability is not self-punishment. It’s not turning your own heart into a punching bag. Accountability means standing in your truth and owning your choices, even when they hurt, even when you’re alone in them.
You can know something is right and still feel crushed by the guilt of doing it. That’s the part people don’t talk about.
The pain of healing is that it often makes you look like the villain to the people who benefited from your silence. And the reflex to beat yourself up is strong. It feels like the only way to keep the peace with yourself when everyone else is pulling away. But beating yourself up is not the same as being good. It’s just the story they taught you to believe. And you don’t have to keep telling it.
Yoli's Write To Sanity 