There’s this quiet guilt that creeps in sometimes—like a whisper in the background—when I catch myself laughing too hard, dancing in the kitchen with the girls, or singing terribly off-key to 90s music. It’s the thought that says, “How dare you feel okay when there’s still this hole, this ache, this missing piece?”
But lately, I’ve realized something wild. Maybe feeling okay is the point. Maybe choosing to live—messy, loud, and with every ounce of joy I can muster—isn’t betrayal. Perhaps it’s love in its most resilient form.
When “Okay” Feels Like a Rebellion
Grief has a strange way of sticking to your skin. It shows up on random Tuesdays while you’re folding laundry, or in the middle of a grocery store aisle when a few beats of a song through the sound system send you running for the door before the tears spill down your cheeks. Grief doesn’t follow logic or convenience.
And yet… life doesn’t stop. Bills still need to be paid. Kids still grow up way too fast. School starts. Prom dresses happen. Essays need to be written. Dinners need to be made. Sometimes you want to escape to the car for a late-night dash with old-school music cranked up like it’s 1999.
So when joy bubbles up—when the laughter overpowers the heaviness—I’ve started thinking of it as rebellion. Not a rebellion against grief itself, but against the idea that we have to live frozen in the pain. Because truth? We can hold both. We can miss someone and still laugh so hard we snort. We can feel the ache and still let the sunlight in.
Redefining “Normal”
There’s a moment that hits me every time I think of what’s been lost: Garet would’ve loved this. He would’ve teased the girls about their prom dresses, probably making them roll their eyes while secretly smiling because his protective side was showing.
And that’s when I remember—our normal is gone. But maybe normal isn’t meant to be static anyway.
We get to redefine it.
We get to create this new version of life, one where grief and growth live side by side. One where we don’t pretend everything’s fine, but we don’t drown in the heaviness either.
Normal, I’m learning, is just choosing what moments we hold on to—and what stories we tell ourselves. And right now? I’m choosing the story where laughter is medicine, where hope is a stubborn flame, and where the people we’ve lost are cheering us on as we keep moving forward.
The Guilt of Feeling Okay
The other day, I caught myself feeling light, and for a second, it felt good. It felt… normal. And then, the guilt came.
Maybe you’ve felt this too? That weird, twisted guilt for being happy after loss. It’s like your heart says, “Wait—you’re not allowed to feel this. Someone you love is missing. You should be heavy, sad, broken.”
But I’m starting to think that feeling okay—choosing okay—isn’t betrayal. It’s part of the healing. It’s saying:
I still carry you. I still love you. And because of you, I choose to keep living.
Life, Tattoos, and Courage
Funny thing—I’ve been thinking about getting another tattoo. A piece of art that feels like a chapter marker. I already have one for Garet, and another matching Kaden’s. But I’m ready to add something new, something that represents this strange mix of resilience and hope.
Tattoos, for me, are less about ink and more about declaring, “This moment mattered. This is who I am now.” And maybe that’s what life is: a series of tattoos, some visible, some invisible.
We all have these invisible tattoos—grief, love, joy, mistakes, dreams—that mark us. And every time we take a deep breath and keep moving forward, we’re adding another one.
Finding Joy in Chaos
Life at home is chaos. The girls are in full-volume mode 98% of the time—laughing, fighting, giggling, making messes faster than I can clean them. And some days, I’m ready to crawl into bed by 8 PM.
But then, something happens—like my daughter sending me prom dress pictures “just for fun”—and my heart swells. In that moment, I’m reminded of everything we’re living for: the messy, imperfect, beautiful now.
Because isn’t that what we’re all craving? Not perfection, not control, but these tiny snapshots of joy that remind us we’re alive.
What I’m Learning About “Okay”
Being okay doesn’t mean we’re over it. It doesn’t mean we don’t cry, or miss them, or ache for what was. It just means we’ve decided to keep showing up.
It’s saying:
- Yes, I’ve been broken—but I’m still here.
- Yes, grief walks with me—but so does love, laughter, and possibility.
- Yes, it’s hard—but so is everything worth doing.
Okay is a quiet kind of bravery. And I think the people we’ve lost want us to be brave. They’d want us to live—loudly, joyfully, unapologetically.
Your Turn
So let me ask you:
- What does “okay” look like for you right now?
- Is there a milestone or change that scares you, but also makes you feel alive?
- Or a song that always pulls you out of the heavy days (because trust me, my playlist is 50% nostalgia and 50% car karaoke disasters!)
I’d love to hear your thoughts, because I think we all need these reminders that we’re not alone in this dance of grief and joy.
Final Thoughts
The beauty of feeling okay—even when the heart still aches—is that it’s proof we’re still here, still loving, still choosing.
And if you’re reading this, maybe that’s your reminder too:
It’s not just okay to feel okay. It’s beautiful.
Leave a comment