🌿 When Grief Interrupts the Rhythm: Caring, Coping, and Still Showing Up

Life can shift in an instant. One moment, I was wrapped in the familiar hum of homeschooling—guiding lessons, folding laundry, planning meals—and the next, I found myself in a stillness I didn’t choose.

My mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It was unexpected, devastating, and sudden in the way that changes everything, yet leaves the world around you strangely unchanged.

She had gone in for a routine scan, looking for answers to something else entirely. But ovarian cancer is often quiet—by the time it speaks, it’s already taken root. That was the case for my mom. And with a single phone call, all the time I thought we had unraveled into uncertainty.

💔 When the Ground Beneath You Shifts

I wish I could say I met the news with clarity or calm. But the truth is, everything just… stopped.

My mind felt too full and too empty all at once. I moved through the motions, but only barely. I sat, quiet and heavy, in the swirl of fear, sorrow, and the haunting unknown.

And yet, life didn’t pause. Children still needed breakfast. Lessons still waited. The rhythm I had cultivated didn’t disappear—but I was no longer sure how to step into it.

✂️ The Weight of Time

Recently, I found myself staring at a set of Bucilla stockings I’d been stitching for my children and extended family. I’d hoped to finish them before Christmas—the one when my parents were with us. But I missed that deadline. And at the time, I wasn’t worried.

I thought I had time.

Now, that missed milestone feels different. Tender. Sharp. It’s a quiet ache, a reminder that we all assume there will be more time—more holidays, more slow mornings, more ordinary miracles.

But life doesn’t always wait for our intentions to catch up.

🕊️ Grieving While Mothering

The hardest part of this season has been holding two truths at once:
I am a daughter in grief, and I am a mother still called to show up with love.

How do you grieve when small hearts around you need rhythm and stability? How do you care for others when your own well feels so empty?

There is no perfect path. But here are a few ways I’m learning to move through the days:

1. Letting Myself Feel (Without Guilt)

For a while, I tried to be “fine.” To smile, to keep going, to protect my children from the weight I was carrying. But grief doesn’t disappear when it’s pushed down—it simply finds quieter, heavier ways to emerge.

So now, I let the tears come. I let my children see a mom who feels deeply. And in doing so, I hope I’m showing them that emotions are not something to hide—but something to honor.

2. Small Moments, Sacred Ground

Some days, I’m lost in thought—spinning through what-ifs and unknowns. But even then, I’m trying to notice the little ways I can be present.

Reading together. Lighting a candle at lunch. Sitting close during a lesson, even if I’m not fully “on.” These moments may be small, but they are anchors. They say, “I’m still here with you, even in the ache.”

3. Embracing Survival Mode

There are days when homeschooling looks like reading on the couch and frozen pizza for dinner. Days when the to-do list is left untouched, and I trust that being together is enough.

And it is.

This is not forever. But for now, grace lives here—in the undone things, in the quiet showing up, in the simple meals and soft goodnights.

4. Reaching Out (Even When It’s Hard)

I tend to carry things quietly. But I’m learning that I don’t have to walk through this alone.

Letting my husband in. Texting a friend. Telling my kids—gently—when I’m having a hard day. These small connections lighten the weight, even just a little.

And every time someone meets me with compassion, I remember that we were never meant to carry everything ourselves.

💛 The Story Isn’t Finished

I don’t have a neat conclusion to this post—because this chapter of my life is still being written. I don’t know what’s next. I don’t know how this will shape me in the long run.

But I do know this:
Love endures.
Grief evolves.
And even in the heaviest seasons, we can keep showing up in soft, imperfect ways.

Some days, that means doing. Some days, it simply means being.

If you’re walking through something hard—whether it’s anticipatory grief, illness, or any form of loss—please know you’re not alone. You are not broken. You are not failing. You are doing holy work by continuing to love and lead through the ache.

And even when it feels like the world is shifting beneath you…
You are still standing.

With you,
Patricia