Before you read anything here, I want you to know where these words come from.

Most of what you’ll find on this blog was written in my darkest hours.

Not after things made sense.
Not after I felt strong or healed or okay.
But right in the middle of it — when the world had cracked open and writing was the only way I knew how to stay alive.

These words are unfiltered.
They are unedited.
They were written when my heart was broken open and there was nowhere else for the truth to go.

I didn’t start this blog because I wanted to be a writer. I started because I was a mother losing her child, and the pain had nowhere to land. Because silence felt more dangerous than honesty. Because pretending I was fine was slowly killing me.

This blog saved my life.

Not in a dramatic, inspirational, neatly packaged way. In a real way. Writing gave my grief somewhere to go so it didn’t live only inside my body. It gave me breath when my chest felt too tight to inhale. It gave me language when everything I was living felt unspeakable.

I wrote from hospital rooms.
From my bedroom floor.
From the middle of the night when the world was quiet and my grief was screaming.

I wrote when I was numb. I wrote when I was furious. I wrote when I didn’t want to be here anymore but stayed anyway. I wrote because getting the truth out of me was the only thing that kept me breathing.

What you’ll read here is not polished. It isn’t cleaned up or softened for anyone’s comfort. Some posts are raw. Some are angry. Some are tender. Some contradict each other. That’s because grief isn’t tidy, and neither is surviving it.

There is no timeline here.
There is no “moving on.”There is no expectation that you will feel better if you just try harder.

These words weren’t written to inspire.
They weren’t written to teach lessons.
They weren’t written to make anyone feel better.

They were written to survive.

This blog is for the parents who are grieving.
It’s for the people who don’t know what to say but don’t want to leave.
It’s for anyone who understands that love doesn’t end when a life does.

It’s for siblings, partners, grandparents, and friends who are carrying loss quietly.
For the ones whose lives split into before and after and never went back.

It’s also for the everyday person who is struggling to get through the day.
For the people who feel alone even in a crowded room.
For the ones who wake up already exhausted, already overwhelmed, already wondering how they’re supposed to keep going.

It’s for those living with anxiety, depression, grief, trauma, or a sadness they can’t fully explain.
For the people who feel desperate, isolated, or invisible.
For the ones who are holding it together on the outside while quietly unraveling inside.

This space is for anyone who has ever felt broken, lost, or afraid that something is wrong with them for feeling the way they do.
For anyone who needs to know they are not weak, not failing, and not alone.

If this space can be anything for you, I hope it feels like a life raft.

Not something that fixes you.
Not something that tells you everything happens for a reason.
Just something you can hold onto when the water feels too deep and you’re too tired to swim.

You don’t have to be brave here.
You don’t have to be strong.
You don’t have to be okay.

You can fall apart.
You can rage.
You can miss them out loud.

Grief doesn’t end. It changes shape. Love doesn’t disappear. It becomes heavier, quieter, more permanent.
Writing is how I learned to carry both — imperfectly, messily, and still breathing.

If these words make you feel less alone, less broken, less crazy for loving someone who is gone — then this space is doing exactly what it was meant to do.

These posts are imperfect.
So am I.

But they are real.

And sometimes, real is the only thing that saves us.

You’re welcome here.
Stay as long as you need.

I love you,

Maya