Why My Book (and others like it) Are A Lie

I used to think grief could be managed.
Broken into small, bite-sized pieces.
Micro-grieved, I called it.

I wrote about it.
Taught it.
Peddled it, honestly.

But I don’t believe that anymore.

I Thought I Had Grief Figured Out

And then life came for me—again.

After the book was published, fresh losses hit.
Not tidy ones. Not “growth opportunity” ones.
I mean the kind that flatten you.
That leave you curled up on the bathroom floor or blank-faced in the grocery store, trying to remember why you’re there.

Suddenly, my so-called clever methods felt like smoke and mirrors.
Not lies, exactly…
But not the whole truth either.

Because when you’re buried under the weight of grief, you’re not in charge.
Grief doesn’t ask permission.
It shows up, takes over, and tells you who you’re going to be now.

What Helps—and What Doesn’t

Sure, there are things that help.
Walks in nature. Warm pets. The rare friend who knows how to sit in silence.
Whispers to a God you’re not sure is listening.

These things are not nothing.
They’re slivers of shelter.
A flickering candle in a power outage.

But they are not cures.
They won’t undo what’s been lost.
They won’t fast-track you out of sorrow or give you your old self back.

And if anyone, including me, ever made you believe they would—I’m sorry. Truly.

Let’s Stop With the Clichés

"Everything happens for a reason."
"God only gives you what you can handle."

It’s well-meaning, but let’s be real—it’s nonsense.
People say these things when they can’t sit in pain with you.
When they’re trying to paint over your collapse with something Hallmark.

But if you’re in the abyss?
If your grief feels like an undertow pulling you down?
You don’t need clichés.
You need truth.

What Actually Happened

One of my lowest nights, I was alone in a hospital bed.
Wrecked in every way—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
I asked God to let me die. Just let me go. No big drama. I was tired.

But something—maybe instinct, maybe the memory of my kids’ faces—held me there.
I reached for a napkin from my dinner tray.
No journal. No plan. Just desperation and a pen.

And on that napkin, I wrote a poem: On That Shore.

It wasn’t tidy.
It wasn’t “micro.”
But it mattered.

It gave shape to my sorrow.
It gave me one more hour. One more breath.
And eventually, it gave me back to myself.

So Here’s My Apology

To anyone who read my book and thought grief could be made smaller, more manageable—I’m sorry.

I know better now.

What I meant to offer were small practices to help you survive grief.
But what I should have said more clearly is this:

Grief isn’t small.
It’s massive.
But so are you.

There will be quiet moments that hold you—like that napkin held me.
They won’t fix it.
But they’ll remind you: you’re still here.

And if you’re still here,
you’re still in it.
You’re still becoming.

If you're buried in it now, I won’t try to lift you out.
But I will sit with you.
And I’ll say the most honest thing I can:

Grief will end when it ends.
Not one minute sooner.

Until then—shelter yourself.
Tell the truth.
Write something on a napkin.

And breathe.

You're not alone.

—Cindy

On That Shore

If I should go and skies turn gray and life swings long and low,

If clouds should burst and hearts should break and between us, time should grow

Then know that I’ve but morphed a bit and flown on up ahead, 

To wait upon the shores of God on this path that I’ve been led.

I’ll sing, I’ll dance, I’ll play all day and the stories I will hear, 

From those who’ve gone before me and from those who now are near.

Rumors and longings from this secret place have billowed through my mind,

Years I’ve longed to see my home, and now, at last, it’s time.

Time for songs, time for joy, time for walks and talks,

Time to know, as I’ve been known, as mysteries are unlocked.

My heart will bloom, His glory full, my Lover now revealed!

My feet upon His grass and my cartwheels in His fields.

My hero and I will laugh and sing, His nobles I will greet,

They’ve butterflied away like I, now His grass beneath their feet.

Long and sweet I’ll drink it in, this new life from my old,

But know each day the shores I’ll walk as I’ve grown now young from old.

Know that I am waiting and longing for that time

When your steps will meet my shore again

And your hand joins back in mine.

I’ll leap, I’ll run, I’ll chase you down,

I’ll kiss you high and low!

I’ll tuck, I’ll hug, I’ll sweep you up

There upon that shore.

Your nose and ears I’ll bite and chew as if they were a cake!

My Heaven will expand then, when you, upon that shore I take.

When dance and laughs and sweet relief’s give full sail to this “Us”

We’ll talk, we’ll tell of our sweet paths that Heaven’s brought us to discuss.

I’ll tell of times when from His lap, your face, your life I poured

The fragrant wine of our dear love and my longings from that shore.

My Captain how He’d silk my hair and gently touch my face

His hands, his love will silk you too, as we wait for our embrace.

So dawn with me, step high and light when life pulls hard and mean

I’ve butterflied, the days will fly till I greet you on that beach.

My kiss, my hugs will wait for you and then still all the more,

When in that time, my God and I will meet you on that shore.

Until Then,

Mom