Some memories live quietly inside us, small, sacred moments that shaped the love we shared.
This is one of mine: a reflection on the way he loved me through every storm, with patience, tenderness, and presence.
A soft remembering of baths, spoiled tears, and being seen even when I didn’t know how to ask for it.

Some days, I feel strong.
Other days, the quiet wraps around me too tightly.
Grief is not a straight path, it’s a tide.
One moment, I’m grounded. The next, I’m missing a presence that once made life feel fuller.

I’m not rushing to “move on.”
I’m learning to sit with the ache,
to honor the silence,
and to love the version of me that’s still becoming.