Grief & Hope Under the Same Sky

Two Moments. Two Reminders. One Promise.

One evening, I was sitting beneath a summer sky when I saw a shooting star.

Immediately, I thought about my mom.

And for a moment, what I felt was grief.

I missed her.

I thought about the conversations we would never have.

The memories we would never make.

The things I wish I could tell her now.

I wished she were still here.

It is amazing how grief can do that.

You can be going about your life, believing you are doing just fine, and then something as simple and beautiful as a shooting star can bring someone rushing back into your heart.

For those few moments, that beautiful streak across the sky didn't feel hopeful to me.

It reminded me of everything I had lost.

A little while later, another shooting star crossed the same sky.

And again, I thought about my mom.

But this time, something was different.

This time, alongside the grief, there was something else.

Hope.

I thought about how much life had happened since she had been gone.

I thought about how I had kept going.

I thought about the things I had accomplished and the person I had become.

And I wondered if maybe she would be proud of me.

Proud that I kept going.

Proud that I pursued the dream of becoming a funeral director.

Proud that somehow, through my own experiences with loss, life, love, grief, and everything in between, I had found a way to stand beside other people carrying theirs.

The first shooting star made me ache for my mom.

The second one reminded me that I was still here.

Same sky.

Same mother.

Same love.

Same loss.

But somehow, a different feeling.

Nothing about the sky had changed.

My mother was still gone.

My love for her had not changed.

What changed was what my heart found in the very same memory.

And maybe that is one of the most important things grief has taught me.

Grief and hope are not enemies.

They are companions.

We sometimes think healing means eventually reaching a place where we aren't sad anymore.

I don't believe that.

I don't think love works that way.

If someone mattered deeply enough to leave a hole in your life when they left, there will probably always be moments when you feel that empty space.

A birthday.

A song.

A smell.

A holiday.

A random Tuesday.

A shooting star.

And suddenly, there they are.

Not physically.

But in you.

And some days, that memory may hurt like hell.

Other days, the exact same memory may make you smile.

And sometimes, somehow, it does both.

That is grief.

And I think that is hope too.

Hope isn't forgetting.

Hope isn't moving on.

Hope isn't deciding that something terrible wasn't terrible.

And hope certainly isn't pretending that everything is okay when it isn't.

Sometimes hope is simply realizing that even though something changed your life forever, your life is not over.

There are still people you haven't met.

There are still conversations you haven't had.

There are still places you haven't gone.

There are still ridiculous moments when you will laugh harder than you thought you ever could again.

There are still people who will need something that only you can give them.

There are still mornings.

There is still coffee.

There are still summer nights.

And there are still shooting stars.

Maybe that's why I don't believe we have to choose between grief and hope.

We can carry both.

We can desperately miss someone and still be excited about tomorrow.

We can cry because they aren't here and laugh because we remembered something ridiculous they did.

We can wish with everything in us that we could have one more conversation while still being grateful for the conversations we did have.

We can grieve the life that was supposed to be and still become curious about the life that might be waiting for us.

Two things can be true at once.

I miss you.

And...

I'm going to keep living.

That isn't betrayal.

That is love learning how to live in a different form.

I think sometimes people are afraid of hope after loss.

Maybe because hoping feels like letting go.

Maybe smiling feels wrong.

Maybe having a good day creates a little flash of guilt.

Maybe dreaming about the future feels strange when someone we desperately wanted in that future isn't going to be there.

But what if hope doesn't take anything away from the person we lost?

What if it honors them?

What if part of carrying someone's love is allowing that love to continue shaping what we do with the life we still have?

I can't tell you exactly what happens after this life.

I can't tell you why some people leave us when they do.

And I certainly can't give grief a timeline.

But I can tell you what two shooting stars taught me beneath one summer sky.

Sometimes the very thing that reminds us of our deepest grief also becomes the place where hope quietly returns.

The first star reminded me how much I missed my mom.

The second reminded me how much of my story was still waiting to be lived.

Neither feeling canceled the other.

They simply existed together.

Grief and hope.

Under the same sky.

Inside the same heart.

And maybe if you're carrying grief today, you don't need someone telling you to move on.

Maybe you don't need someone telling you everything happens for a reason.

Maybe you don't need advice at all.

Maybe you just need somebody willing to sit beside you and say:

I know you miss them.

You are allowed to miss them.

And whenever you're ready, there is still hope here too.

You don't have to find all of it today.

You don't even have to look for it.

Sometimes hope finds us.

Sometimes it crosses an ordinary summer sky when we least expect it.

And sometimes we just need to look up.

Grief and hope can live in the same heart.

I know.

I've felt them both.

Pinky promise.