Grief Hungry

A fatherless daughter’s betrayal list. What would you add?

Carrying a lot.

The phrase came to me while I was unloading groceries one day — bags digging into my forearms, keys wedged between my fingers, a loaf of bread about to slide out.

It’s how I shop, and if I’m being honest, it’s how I live.

Carrying more than I should. Carrying what I can’t always name. Carrying so much pain and stress my traps are basically earrings.

It’s also how my Dad lived.

He spent his career and his life helping people who couldn’t help themselves. He would’ve given you the shirt off his back, no questions asked.

This tote is for that.

For lemons, onions, a rotisserie chicken and grief.

For bread, flowers, and the things you pick up along the way — and for carrying something forward in their name.

Proceeds from this drop will fund meals for communities in crisis through . Because sometimes, carrying a lot also means carrying for others. Link in bio to order.

July 5th is supposed to be a celebration.

This year, it is. It’s my father-in-law’s 70th birthday — a milestone, a moment that deserves joy.

But it’s also the day my Dad would have turned 70.

Same day. Same year.

One of them is here. The other is not.

Losing my Dad felt like the floor disappeared underneath me. He wasn’t just my parent — he was my safe place, my soundboard, my everyday voice. His presence made me feel like there was always someone looking out for me.

When he died, it didn’t feel like something went wrong. It felt like everything went wrong.

And sometimes, days like this — when we celebrate someone else — that quiet grief in the background appears like a shadow. A thundercloud. A lump in my throat I carry into every photo, every toast.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not resentment. It’s just a reminder that I lost something unrepeatable.

And I’m still learning how to exist in a world without him.

So, if you’re carrying something like this — feeling heavy when everyone else seems light — I see you.

You’re not selfish.
You’re not forgotten.
You’re just grieving.

And that’s allowed.

“I don’t have many memories of my mom. I wish I could remember just one holiday with her: what she wore, what she cooked, who was around the table, what music we listened to. I’m glad I don’t remember that first Thanksgiving without her, almost six months to the day after we lost her. I imagine it was piercingly quiet, the empty seat at the table painfully palpable. The things I don’t remember are both a blessing and a curse.

The one thing I do remember is her laugh. Maybe it’s ingrained in my memory from home videos more than real life. But when I look at this photo, I can hear her infectious laughter. I like to imagine she was in the kitchen preparing a big Thanksgiving meal here, smiling & laughing as she made a mess. I make up entire storylines in my head: what she cooked, who was around the table, what music she listened to. Sometimes the made-up stories are all we have, even if they’re not enough. Sometimes they sustain us.

If you’re missing someone a bit extra, I hope you have happy memories to hold onto in their absence. But if you don’t, I hope you create your own stories that make you smile. And I hope they sustain you.”

Jody’s High Rise Apple Pancake

1-2 apples (peeled and chopped)
1 tsp. lemon juice
2 TBSP. sugar
3 eggs
1/2 cup plus 2 TBSP. flour
1/2 cup plus 2 TBSP. milk
5 TBSP. butter

Preheat oven to 425°. Toss apples w/ lemon juice & sugar. Combine eggs, flour & milk in mixing bowl. Beat lightly with be**er (batter will be slightly lumpy). Heat butter in 11-12” skillet on burner until hot & bubbly. Remove heat & quickly add batter & apples. Put in oven. Bake @ 425° for 25 minutes.

I wish there was a recipe for this—for birthdays without the person who made them feel like something. A dash of joy, a spoonful of dread, mix until barely holding shape. Every year I try to make something out of what’s left. And every year, it rises—but never quite the same. 💜