The Week That Demanded Endurance.

This week has been heavy in ways that don’t show on the surface.

The kind of heavy that doesn’t always announce itself loudly, but presses down quietly, steadily, until even the smallest tasks feel monumental. The kind of heavy that lives in the body long before it finds words.

I filed the lawsuit.

Words I never imagined would belong to my life, now permanently etched into it. Pages filled with dates, facts, language meant to be precise and unemotional—yet every line carries memory, pain, and a truth I never asked to have to prove. Approving the paperwork felt like crossing another invisible threshold, one I never wanted to approach but could no longer avoid. There is something deeply disorienting about watching your life be translated into legal language, knowing what sits behind every sentence.

I went shopping for clothing for the upcoming trial.

On the surface, it sounds mundane. Ordinary. Something people do every day without thought. But there was nothing ordinary about it. Those clothes aren’t just clothes. They represent standing in a room where my story will be examined, questioned, dissected. They represent being seen in a moment I would give anything not to relive.

In the dressing room, my body finally said what my mind had been holding back. It collapsed under the weight of what those clothes symbolized. The panic came fast—tight chest, shaking hands, tears that wouldn’t stop. I sat there sobbing, overwhelmed by grief, fear, and the deep exhaustion of carrying so much for so long.

And then, something unexpected happened.

An employee noticed. A complete stranger. She didn’t rush me. She didn’t minimize what I was feeling. She stayed. She helped me breathe. She spoke softly, patiently, as if my pain deserved time and space. She walked me through the entire process, one step at a time, until I could stand again. Until I could choose what I needed. Until I could leave.

She is the only reason I walked out of that store successfully—yes, with my outfits—but more importantly, with my dignity intact. I will never forget that moment. I will never forget how someone who owed me nothing offered compassion so freely. In the middle of one of the hardest weeks of my life, she reminded me that humanity still exists in quiet, unexpected places.

And woven through all of this—threaded through every breath this week—is the second anniversary of Sadie’s death.

Two years.

Two years since my world split open in a way it will never fully close again. Two years of learning how to live in a reality that no longer includes her physical presence, while her absence remains everywhere. Two years of missing her in every cell of my body. In ordinary moments. In milestones she should be here for. In the silence that follows laughter.

Grief doesn’t move in straight lines. It doesn’t obey timelines or soften just because time has passed. It changes shape, yes—but it doesn’t disappear. Some days it’s a dull ache. Other days it’s sharp and breath-stealing. This week, it was all-consuming.

This week didn’t ask me how I was doing.

It demanded endurance.

It asked me to show up for things that hurt. To hold my ground in spaces that feel unsafe. To keep putting one foot in front of the other when my nervous system was screaming for rest, for escape, for relief.

So if you’ve felt me quieter, slower, heavier—this is why. I’m not broken. I’m grieving. I’m navigating trauma layered on top of loss. I’m showing up the best I can, even when that looks different than before. I’m letting myself be held where I can find it—by strangers, by small moments of kindness, by pauses that allow me to breathe.

There is a strange tenderness in realizing that sometimes survival doesn’t look like strength. Sometimes it looks like allowing yourself to fall apart in a dressing room. Sometimes it looks like accepting help. Sometimes it looks like choosing compassion over pushing through.

If you’re walking through something heavy too—whether anyone can see it or not—please know you’re not alone. Even when it feels impossible, care can still meet us in unexpected moments. Sometimes through people we’ve never met before. Sometimes through allowing ourselves to be honest about how hard it actually is.

I’m taking this one breath at a time.

One moment at a time.

And trusting that even in weeks like this, there is still room for grace.