She is In The Great Abundance.

Dated written June 21, 2025

It started with my mom.

Yesterday was her birthday ( June 20). I tried to be fine. Not because I don't miss her, not because I don't love her—but because I'm tired of being sad. Still, the sadness had other plans. I had a morning where I missed her. Not just her, but something else, something hard to name. I think I miss the version of myself that came before I started adapting to the world—before I adapted to her, to my Dad, to everyone.

What I really wanted to say is:

When I miss her, I also miss, honestly, I miss the feeling of aliveness those moments held—those feelings of being in sync.

I try to transform that missing into having—to shift into gratitude for what still remains. But it sometimes feels like denial. Because when I start to miss, it opens a backlong of griefs and longings I didn’t know were still in me.

It wasn't just my mom. When my grandma passed, I lost her house too—a safe haven. The grief changed. It became less about her and more about the magic, the parts of myself I buried to keep going. Her house. My mom. My grandma. My dreams. My magic. All losses. All grief. All connected.

And here's what I realized: what I miss is almost synonymous with what I've denied.

We deny ourselves the very things that soothe us. We write off soul desires as indulgent or impossible. We call it being realistic. We call it being mature. But in doing that, we shut ourselves off from the very things that make us feel alive.

We are not lacking because the abundance isn't there. We are lacking because we were trained to cut ourselves off from it.

When we lose someone, or something hits us with deep grief, it connects us to everything we've ever lost—even the parts of ourselves we said goodbye to without realizing. It becomes overwhelming because we're feeling a lifetime of denied grief, not just the current wave. And because our culture teaches us that we only grieve living people, we often don’t have the language for it. We don't know how to grieve what we can't name.

But here's something beautiful I believe—even if I can't prove it: what if the reason missing someone hurts so much is because we're denying ourselves access to them? What if they are still here in some way? What if to feel them again, we must first allow ourselves to feel joy again?

Isn’t that worth exploring, even without evidence?

Grief is a detonator. It destroys denial. People say it cracks open a closed heart. They describe the closed heart as stone-like, emotionless, stuck. But it’s not that we are unfeeling—it’s that we close our hearts slowly, little by little, after being hurt or told our feelings don’t matter. Grief breaks that open because it connects us to what we lost and everything we dream of.

That’s the real lesson: when we lose someone or something we love, it links directly to the heart. It reawakens our true feelings—the ones we tucked away because we didn’t know what to do with them, or were told they weren’t important.

To stay connected to what we love, we have to open the heart space.

Everything we love lives in The Great Abundance.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s another name for God