A Grief Routine

Just when I think I’ve got a handle on things, life taps me on the shoulder like, “Hey, remember? This is your reality now.” And I’m like, oh right, this weird, surreal, heavy world I didn’t sign up for.

I’m mostly functional. I work, I get stuff done, I show up. But when things get quiet, that’s when it creeps in. That part of me that whispers, “How long can you keep pretending you’re fine?”

Truth is, I’ve lost interest in a lot lately. Most days, I just want to be left alone. It’s quieter, less exhausting. But I know myself. If I stop moving, stop doing, it will get harder to climb out of the hole. So I try to show up. Checking boxes. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.

So Many Emotions

Grief is a circus. Not the fun kind with peanuts and elephants. It’s the kind with emotional clowns juggling anger, sadness, guilt, love, confusion, nostalgia… all at once. There are moments I’m sobbing so hard I can’t breathe, wondering how I’m supposed to keep going without Eddie. And then, out of nowhere, I feel him. Not in a Patrick Swayze, ghostly way, just a quiet nudge. Like he’s saying, “You’ve got this, Lis’. Keep going. Even without me physically here.”

It feels impossible some days. But then I look around and see other people who’ve lost someone. And somehow, they’ve found their way back to joy. Not perfectly, not quickly, but they’ve done it. They still talk about their person with love, sometimes even with laughter. And they’ve kept living. That gives me hope. Even if I can’t quite see how I’ll get there yet.

Grief’s not a one-size-fits-all thing. It’s long, it’s weird, and everyone moves through it in their own way. I’ve definitely hit a few of the Kübler-Ross stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance- but not in order, and not like a tidy checklist. It’s more like someone hit shuffle on an emotional playlist and forgot to turn it off.

But, I make it through each day. My “grief routine” isn’t fancy or profound—it’s just a few things that help me stay grounded when the days get heavy. Here’s what gets me through without completely falling apart.

Cry Like It’s My Job
Ugly cry, pretty cry, silent car cry, loud shower cry. Bonus points if you cry while putting on your makeup and questioning the meaning of mascara. It’s not weakness—it’s emotional cardio.

Do One Thing (Even If It’s Just Brushing Your Teeth)
Some days I write, organize my house, call a friend, maybe even cook something that isn’t a frozen pizza. Other days, brushing my teeth and putting on pants is a full-blown win. I take it.

Watch Out for the Positivity Police
You know the ones—“Look on the bright side!” or “Everything happens for a reason.” or “You’ll find another love.” (Yes that happened) I’m all for hope, but let’s not skip the hard stuff. If someone tries to slap a shiny sticker on my grief, I’m out. Boundaries keep me sane.

Feel All the Things (Even the Weird Ones)
Grief isn’t just sadness. It’s rage, guilt, love, relief, confusion, and the occasional 2 a.m. Chipotle burrito bowl craving. I let the feelings come and go. No judgment.

Keep Moving (Even If It’s a Shuffle)
I don’t have to sprint toward healing. I don’t even need a map. I just keep showing up. Keep living. Eddie’s still with me—in the quiet nudges, the memories, the love that didn’t end. I’m not alone.

Rinse and repeat.

Grief is messy and weird and sometimes you’ll feel like you’re failing at it. But remind yourself: there’s no right way to do this. Yep, this hurts like hell. But you’re still here. You’re still moving. And maybe, just maybe, peace isn’t off the table.