Grief Coach | Caregiving Guide

Day: April 17, 2025

  • You Can’t Pour From an Empty Cup.

    You Can’t Pour From an Empty Cup.

    Some of the most challenging, yet profoundly meaningful and rewarding moments of my life came during the time I was a caregiver to my late mother and husband (pictured). Many days were filled with tears and exhaustion—but there were also moments of sweetness. Gentle conversations that only we could understand, sacred times spent simply being together, and even bursts of laughter as we navigated the winding path of knowns and unknowns.

     

    There were days when it felt like we were wrapped in a bubble of peace—protected. And others, when fear and vulnerability crept in. Still, when I look back, I can clearly see the many arms woven around us… and above all, the hand of God resting gently over us.

     

    It was a season of pain and purpose, of wondering and weariness—but most of all, it was a season of love.

     

    Caregivers often feel like they can’t pause—not even for a breath—because the weightis so heavy. But it is critical that you do. You must find a moment, wherever you can, to offer yourself care. It doesn’t have to be big. It just has to be something.

     

    You know the old saying: “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” 

     

    That cup of yours matters. It may not always be full—but it must have “something” in it to keep you going.

    Why caregivers must take care of themselves:

    To sustain their own physical and emotional well-being, so they can continue to show up with presence and love. 

    To create space for healing and strength, especially on the hardest days. 

    Because their life and needs matter too—they are not just caregivers, but human beings worthy of care.

     

    You are doing holy, heart-filled work.  And you deserve rest, tenderness, and grace along the way.


  • After the Loss

    After the Loss

    I saw a quote recently that said, “When the funeral ends and the people go home, that’s when the real funeral begins.” And that hit me hard. It resonated with me to my core.

     

    I’ve been on both sides of this more times than I care to count—and I can tell you, it’s true. The hardest part of grief is often not the service, not the day of goodbye—but the silence that follows. The days, the weeks, the months later, when the world has moved on… and you haven’t yet.

      

    I can’t stress enough how important follow-up is AFTER the loss, AFTER the memorial, AFTER everyone has gone home. It’s in the quiet moments that grief starts to grow heavy, and it’s often in those moments that support is needed the most.

     

    I remember a friend who sent me a card every week for a year after my husband passed away. They seemed to arrive at just the right moment, reminding me I wasn’t forgotten. That simple act meant the world.

     

    Here are 3 heartfelt ways to support someone days/weeks/months AFTER their loss.

     

    Check in regularly – A text, call, or note just to say “I’m thinking of you” can bring light to a heavy day. Speaking from someone who has been there….this helps so much!

    Acknowledge milestones– The first birthday, anniversary, or holiday without a loved one is incredibly hard. A small gesture of remembrance goes a long way.

    Offer specific help – Instead of “let me know if you need anything,” say “Can I drop off dinner this week?” or “I’m free for a walk or coffee if you are up to it.”

     

    Grieving doesn’t end when the last person leaves the service—it’s only just beginning. It’s in the days and months that follow, when the casseroles stop coming and the phone stops ringing, that the weight of loss truly starts settling in. That’s when the quiet becomes loud, and the absence becomes painfully real. It’s in those moments that love, presence, and compassion matter the most.

     


  • Smiling through a Memory

    Smiling through a Memory

    I remember when I couldn’t even look at this memory without being swallowed by pain . It would send me spiraling, reminding me of everything I lost. But now, when it pops up, I smile. I feel grateful. It reminds me of a once-in-a-lifetime love that was real, deep, and beautiful. I’m thankful every time it appears.

     

     

    Getting here didn’t happen overnight. It took time. It took patience, growth, and a whole lot of grace . It took sitting with the pain instead of running from it, allowing it to teach me, shape me, and slowly release its grip. It meant surrendering to a process I couldn’t rush or control. It meant having faith when everything felt hopeless.

     

     

    There were countless prayers—whispered through tears in the quiet hours, begging God to hold me together when I felt like I was falling apart. There were days when it felt like I took one step forward only to fall three steps back. But even then, I was growing—with and through the pain. I was being refined, stripped of who I was before the loss, and slowly becoming someone new—someone braver, softer, and stronger.

     

     

    Every hurdle I overcame, every wave I rode out, brought me closer to this place—this space where I can hold grief and gratitude in the same breath. Where I can honor the loss without being consumed by it.

     

     

    To anyone who is in that dark place right now—please hold on. You are not alone. It will not always hurt like this. Your love mattered. Your grief matters. And your healing matters too.

     

     

    Give yourself time. Give yourself grace. And know that joy can live alongside sorrow. One day, the memory that once broke you might just become the very thing that reminds you how deeply you loved—and how deeply you were loved in return.