03/09/2026
๐ช๐๐ข ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ฌ๐ข๐จ ๐ช๐๐๐ก ๐ง๐๐ ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ก๐๐๐ฆ?
Sometimes we don't only grieve what happened.
๐ช๐ฒ ๐ด๐ฟ๐ถ๐ฒ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ต๐ผ ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฒ ๐ฏ๐ฒ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฟ๐ฒ ๐ถ๐ ๐ต๐ฎ๐ฝ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฑ.
You were someone's spouse.
Someone's caregiver.
The parent who was needed every single day.
The service member who put on a uniform and knew exactly where they belonged.
The person who spent decades building a career.
The friend who thought that friendship would last forever.
The person whose body could do things it may no longer be able to do.
And then something changes.
A relationship ends.
The kids grow up.
You retire.
You leave the military.
A career disappears.
Caregiving ends.
A diagnosis changes the future you imagined.
Someone you love dies.
People may recognize the obvious loss.
But underneath it can be another quieter question:
๐ช๐ต๐ผ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ ๐ป๐ผ๐?
There is a name for some of what you may be feeling:
๐๐๐๐ก๐ง๐๐ง๐ฌ ๐๐ฅ๐๐๐.
Because sometimes we aren't only mourning a person, place, relationship, or chapter.
We're mourning the version of ourselves that existed within it.
And you don't have to rush to figure out who you're supposed to be next.
There can be grief in the space between ๐๐ต๐ผ ๐๐ผ๐ ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฒ and ๐๐ต๐ผ ๐๐ผ๐'๐ฟ๐ฒ ๐ฏ๐ฒ๐ฐ๐ผ๐บ๐ถ๐ป๐ด.
Give yourself permission to exist there for a while.
You don't have to have the next version of yourself figured out yet. ๐ชถ