July holds a lot for me.
It’s Bereaved Parents Month.
It’s my birthday month.
And it carries this ache that’s hard to describe—the strange truth that I’m still here, while he’s not.
Every year I wonder what he would have loved, who he would have become, what this month might have felt like if things had been different. So when the city of Heath held their Star Spangled Celebration, I didn’t want to go. At all.
This week had already been heavy. I wasn’t in the mood for fireworks. I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.
But I took a deep breath, pulled on my jeans (because Lyme disease is everywhere this year 😒), and went anyway. Besides, the kids deserve me to be there.
Letting Go of the Pressure to “Feel It”
I didn’t go to take pictures.
I didn’t go “ohhh & ahhh” or clap or feel inspired.
I didn’t even take my phone out of my pocket.
I just stood there in the tall grass—not obsessing over ticks for once—and let myself be.
And here’s the thing: I didn’t feel that old excitement I used to have about fireworks.
But for the first time since 2002, I wasn’t scanning the crowd, counting heads, or trying to keep everyone safe.
I just… watched.
No panic. No pretending. Just presence.
Witnessing Without Expectation
I let myself simply observe.
And I think that was the most honest thing I could have done.
I didn’t force anything. I didn’t expect anything.
I just stood in the dark and let the show unfold.
And somehow, that felt like progress.
Like healing in its rawest, most unfiltered form.
Seeing Fireworks Through a New Lens
I’ve been taking a humanities class, and one thing it’s taught me is to see everything through the lens of art.
So I asked myself: What if these fireworks were more than just explosions in the sky? What if they were art—temporary, intentional, fleeting?
And suddenly I was seeing everything differently.
Some bursts were like perfect rhinestones scattered across the sky—stunning and gone before I could fully take them in. Others trailed behind, glowing long after the initial explosion, dancing in the dark like they weren’t quite ready to disappear.
Both were beautiful.
Both were intentional.
And both made me feel something I hadn’t expected.
The Metaphor I Didn’t Know I Needed
Those rhinestone bursts?
They reminded me of lives cut short—dazzling, breathtaking, gone too soon.
Like my son’s.
And the bursts with those trailing sparks?
They felt like the people who lived a little longer. They were the ones who left behind traces—relationships, memories, and impact. They lit up others, even, and made life better for everyone—and they will continue to do so long after they are gone.
Maybe that’s what we all are:
Some of us flash bright and fast.
Some of us leave shimmering trails behind.
And both are worthy.
Both are remembered.
What Grief Has Taught Me
This year, I didn’t walk away with a heart full of fireworks.
I walked away with something quieter—reverence, reflection, and a deeper appreciation for the metaphors grief offers us, even in the middle of a summer sky.
I’m still learning how to hold joy and sorrow at the same time.
Still learning that showing up, even when you don’t feel like it, is its own kind of sacred.
🔥 Your Turn
Have you ever shown up for something with no expectations and walked away with a lesson instead?
Have you ever seen something ordinary—a firework, a sunset, a song—and suddenly felt it carry a deeper meaning?
I’d love to hear your story.
Drop it in the comments, and let’s hold space for each other, together.
Light and Love ~Mandy
Also, “thank you” to the City of Heath for the fireworks tonight; they were beautiful.
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