Yesterday, I wrecked my car.
In the snow.
Because, of course, it was the snow.
Why wouldn’t it be the snow?
The ball joint broke.
The bumper was ripped off.
And suddenly, the one car I rely on is sitting there—damaged, immobile, and useless.
And I stood there feeling… sad.
Very sad. So sad.
But not in the way I would have expected.
There was a time when something like this would have shattered me. I would have curled up, sobbed until my chest hurt, and felt like the weight of the world had collapsed all at once. Everything would have felt unbearable. Overwhelming. Too much.
But today, the sadness felt… different.
Still real.
Still heavy.
But quieter.
Grief Changes the Scale of Everything
Loss has a way of recalibrating your emotional compass.
When you’ve lost a child, the definition of sad changes.
The definition of devastating changes.
The definition of what truly matters changes.
A broken car hurts—especially when it’s the only one you have, and especially when you loved cruising in it just that morning, completely unaware of what the day would bring.
But this sadness didn’t knock the wind out of me.
It didn’t take me to the floor.
Because somewhere along the way, grief taught me this brutal, unwanted lesson:
There are worse things than this.
And I hate that I had to learn it this way.
The Irony of Loving Something Right Before Losing It
There’s something cruelly ironic about realizing how much you love something right before it’s taken from you—even temporarily.
This morning, I was thinking about how much I love that stupid car.
How it feels to cruise.
How it gave me a sense of freedom.
How it carried music, laughter, quiet moments, and escape.
And then—gone.
Not forever.
But gone enough to hurt.
And still… the sadness didn’t consume me.
Because grief has already consumed the part of me that reacts the way I once did.
When Hard Things Stack Up
And maybe part of why this hits the way it does is when it’s happening.
The holidays are here.
Money feels tighter.
Everything feels louder.
And now, on top of all that, there’s no car—and the stress that comes with figuring out how to move forward when something essential suddenly stops working.
There was a time when this combination alone would have sent me spiraling.
But it didn’t.
Instead, there’s this dull thud in my chest.
Not panic.
Not collapse.
Just the quiet weight of knowing things are hard—and realizing I can still carry them.
Perspective Isn’t the Same as Minimizing Pain
Here’s the thing I want to say clearly—especially for anyone reading this who feels confused by their own reactions to life:
Just because you don’t fall apart the way you used to doesn’t mean the pain isn’t real.
It doesn’t mean you don’t care.
It doesn’t mean you’re numb.
It doesn’t mean you’re “over” anything.
It means your heart has learned how to survive.
Sadness didn’t disappear—it evolved.
And now, when something hard happens, there’s this quiet voice underneath it all saying:
This hurts… but I’ve lived through worse. And I’m still here.
There Is Growth, Even When We Didn’t Ask for It
I would give anything to go back to the version of me who didn’t know this level of loss.
Anything.
But since I can’t, I try to notice the changes—the strange, complicated growth that comes from trauma.
I notice that:
- I can feel sadness without drowning in it
- I can hold frustration without letting it define my day
- I can lose something and still know what matters most
And what matters most isn’t metal and bumpers and broken parts.
It’s people.
It’s breath.
It’s life continuing—messy, imperfect, fragile.
If Your Sad Feels Different Too
If you’ve noticed that your sadness doesn’t look the same anymore…
If things that should devastate you somehow don’t hit as hard…
If you feel guilty for being “okay enough”…
Please know this:
You are not cold.
You are not broken.
You are not doing grief wrong.
You have been changed.
And sometimes that change shows up in the quiet realization that even on a bad day—
even standing beside a wrecked car in the snow—
you are still standing.
And that counts for more than we ever wanted it to.
Journal Prompts (Only If You’re Ready)
🌿 Prompt 1:
What feels heavy in my life right now — and what helps me carry it, even a little? (There are no wrong answers. Lists count. Single words count.)
❄️ Prompt 2:
How has my definition of “sad” changed over time?
What hurts differently now than it once did?
🕯️ Prompt 3:
What have I survived that I never thought I could?
(Not to relive it — just to acknowledge the strength it required.)
✨ Prompt 4 (Holiday-Gentle):
What do I need this season to feel supported, not overwhelmed?
What can I give myself permission to release? (You share this with people in your life so they can help support you even!)
You don’t have to answer all of these. You don’t even have to answer a single one. Let the words come the way they want to—or simply sit with the questions.
If you find yourself here—tired, reflective, carrying more than you planned—I hope you can offer yourself a little grace. You don’t need to be strong in the way people expect. You don’t need to be cheerful or “better” or grateful for lessons you never asked to learn.
You’re allowed to move through this season slowly. To rest when you need to. To feel what comes without judgment.
And even on days when things break, plans unravel, or sadness settles quietly in your chest—you are still here. Still breathing. Still becoming.
That matters more than you know.
Love and light ~Mandy
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