Okay babes, grab your coziest blanket and that half-cold coffee sitting on your desk – we’re about to dive into the emotional equivalent of a Taylor Swift breakup anthem (minus the actual breakup). Three years ago today, I was ugly-crying into a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream while my goldfish gave me judgmental side-eye. Why? Because grief had moved into my life like that weird roommate who never does dishes.
Let’s get raw: My wake-up call came packaged in hospital beige when I lost Nana – my human Wikipedia of questionable baking hacks and the only person who laughed at my terrible impressions. The first month? A blur of sweatpants theology and Googling “can sadness cause hair loss” at 3AM (spoiler: yes, but biotin helps).
But here’s the plot twist nobody tells you: Grief makes the BEST personal trainer. That time I accidentally signed up for pottery class during a grief-crazed Groupon binge? Turns out throwing clay is cheaper than therapy. My lopsided vase collection now doubles as abstract art and weaponry against burglars.
Science backs this chaos, by the way. UCLA researchers found that traumatic events literally rewire our brains to spot joy in smaller things – like finally nailing that espresso martini recipe or discovering your ex’s Spotify playlist makes perfect rat repellant. My personal growth metrics? I went from “can’t change lightbulb” to “built a treehouse that survived Hurricane Karen’s backyard BBQ.”
The real tea? Vulnerability became my secret sauce. That time I sobbed through yoga class because downward dog smelled like Nana’s lavender sachets? Turned into a group hug with three strangers and an impromptu pancake brunch. Turns out showing your messy side doesn’t scare people away – it gives them permission to be human too.
Now, I adventure like my legs are on fire and my passport’s expiring. Last month’s solo trip to Iceland? Got stranded in a sheep field during a blizzard, made friends with a farmer named Björn who taught me Viking curse words, and discovered frozen waterfalls make excellent echo chambers for belting out Whitney Houston.
The magic isn’t in “moving on” – it’s in carrying love forward like a slightly dented but functional thermos. My grief resume now includes: professional flower arranger (learned at funeral planning), amateur stand-up comedian (laughter is cheaper than Xanax), and certified badass at staring down fear.
So here’s my messy, unedited survival guide:
1. Let the snotty cries happen – waterproof mascara exists for a reason 💄
2. Collect “joy anchors” (mine: the smell of burnt cookies and 90s boyband playlists)
3. When life gives you trauma, make trauma-tinis (2oz courage, 1oz dark humor, splash of rebellion)
Your turn, warrior queens – what battle scars are you wearing like glitter today? Drop your most chaotic healing moment below and let’s turn this comments section into our personal resilience shrine. 💫