There comes a moment in grief that nobody prepares you for. Not the moment they leave. Not the moment the house goes quiet. Not even the moment you realize life kept going without asking you for permission. No— It’s the moment you realize you cannot carry it all the same way anymore. And that realization feels like betrayal. Because part of you believes: If I loosen my grip… If I shift how I carry them… If I stop holding this pain the way I’ve been holding it… …am I letting them go? But...

Resurrection Sunday used to feel like celebration. Now… it feels like contrast. Because how do you shout “He is risen!” when your heart is still carrying what feels like death? How do you celebrate life…when you have buried your own children? This is the part people don’t talk about. Grief looks different on holidays. It’s louder. It’s sharper. It’s more present. Because everything around you is trying to be joyful…and you are trying to hold yourself together. Today is Resurrection Sunday....

There is a version of grief that people don’t talk about enough. Not the kind you cry through. Not the kind you write about. Not even the kind you pray through. But the kind your body carries. When Your Body Remembers What Your Mouth Can’t Say Grief has weight. And trauma… trauma has memory. It settles into your shoulders. It hides in your chest. It shows up in your breathing, your sleep, your ability to focus, your ability to be. There are days I am not sad. …but my body is. There are...