Reflections on Year Two

When I was around 12, I had an unforgettable experience at the beach. The ocean was familiar, comforting—but this day it wasn’t. The undertow was unusually strong and before I realized it, I had drifted far from shore, pulled in deeper and deeper by the current.

I fought to keep my head above water, but every time I gasped for air, another wave crashed over me, dragging me under. I couldn’t find the surface. The harder I fought, the more helpless I felt, until finally, a lifeguard reached me and carried me back to safety. It left me scared and with a new respect for the power of the ocean.

That moment has stayed with me—not just for the fear I felt, but because it reminds me so much of the fight to heal.

Healing is hard work. Not the kind of hard work where you have to study for a final but the kind of hard work to stay alive while being battered by waves and you’re not sure which was is up.. Some days, the water is calmer, and I can ride the waves. Other days, the current is too strong, and I get knocked down again and again.

Two years into this grief journey, I still feel like I’m caught in those waves. Healing hasn’t followed a neat timeline, and I can’t confidently say I’ve made progress—not in a way that’s easy to measure. Grief doesn’t let you tie things up with a pretty bow. It’s messy, relentless, and often leaves you gasping for air.

What Does Healing Even Look Like?

This year, I’ve learned more about how our brains process trauma and grief. It’s both fascinating and humbling to realize how God designed us to heal—even in the smallest ways. One example is storytelling. Sharing your story with someone who truly listens doesn’t just lighten the burden; it helps reframe the pain into something you can hold, something you can start to make sense of.

It reminds me of the story of the woman with the issue of blood. She thought she could find healing by simply touching Jesus’ garment. But Jesus stopped, turned to her, and called her “daughter.” He didn’t just heal her body; He saw her, knew her. He gave her story meaning.

The desire to share our story from the beginning has in some strange way, been a mercy, a healing mechanism. A way to open up so that others can know, and I can be known. There’s a mysterious comfort too in knowing that God sees me fully, even when I can barely make sense of myself.

Strength for Today

I wish I could say that this always makes the waves easy to bear. Sometimes it does. But often, it doesn’t. There are still days when I wake up and feel the weight of grief like an undertow pulling me under.

There’s no summit to reach or crossline to finish line where I can exclaim, “I’ve made it!” when it comes to life-long heartbreak. There’s no point in this journey where everything will feel resolved, no grand moment of closure. And looking beyond today—toward all the years statistics say I have left—can feel overwhelming. The weight of carrying this grief for the rest of my life seems unbearable at times.

Yet even in those moments, there are small mercies. They don’t erase the pain, but they remind me I’m still here. A kind word, a brief laugh, or a moment of peace can be enough to carry me through the day. I live for those new morning mercies the Lord faithfully provides. I naturally want to focus on the “bright hope for tomorrow” part, but these days, I hold tightly to “strength for today.” Sometimes, that’s all I have, and I’m learning to let it be enough.

Carrying the Weight Differently

If anything, year two still feels as though the loss happened just yesterday. But we’ve started to carry the weight differently. It’s become a part of us, woven into our story in ways we never wanted but can’t undo.

If you’re navigating this same sea of grief—a lifelong broken-heartedness that leaves you scared and with a deep respect for its power, much like my respect for the ocean—I see you. On days when the waves are overwhelming, find your lifeguards, share your story and let surviving the waves be enough and let the great faithfulness of our Savior buoy you until we reach the eternal shore.