Tag: loss

Undercurrent

Kristine Binder

Earlier this week, grief knocked the wind out of me. Literally took me down and out.
I’m only writing about it now because I needed time to process what happened. It took sitting with it for a few days and talking it through in therapy before I could really understand it enough to put words to it.
It started in the most ordinary way. I drove to work like I always do…. same streets, same turns, same parking spot. I pulled in, turned off the car, and then just sat there. And I couldn’t get out. The building was right in front of me. My bag was on the seat. Nothing was different, and yet everything felt impossibly heavy.
The strangest part was that I don’t even know what caused it. There wasn’t a specific memory or moment. It was like a wave came out of nowhere, took me under, and I couldn’t seem to come up for air. I was completely consumed by my own sadness. Nothing made it feel better, and that part scared me. It felt like I was in a spiral of sadness with no clear reason why.
I texted a friend who knows me well enough to give me exactly what I needed…. a little empathy and a little tough love. Eventually I took a breath, opened the car door, and went inside.
From the outside, the day probably looked normal. Work went on. Conversations happened. The usual rhythm of the day moved forward. But all day I was holding back tears. The smallest things would make my eyes well up….. a kind word, a quiet moment, a passing thought. Nothing dramatic, just the weight of grief sitting right under the surface.
There are moments lately where I almost wish I could just wear a sign so people would understand. Something that says “Caution: grieving.” Or maybe “Hey… be nice. My parents died this year.” Or even the blunt truth: “Hey… my parents are dead.” Not because I want sympathy, but because grief makes you realize how many people are walking around carrying things no one else can see.
In the past, I probably would have suffered through something like that in silence. I would have pushed it down, smiled, and pretended everything was fine. But not anymore. I told my coworkers I was having a hard day and tried to explain how I was feeling. I could not accurately put it into words. They may not have fully understood, but they were kind. They checked on me throughout the day, offered support, and gave me space when I needed it. That mattered more than they probably realized.
One of the things I talked about in therapy later that week is how little space our society really gives to grief. In some cultures, people wear black and are openly in mourning for a year. The loss is visible. The grief is acknowledged. It is understood that healing takes time.
Here, we get a few days off. Then we’re expected to return to life as usual, even though nothing inside of us feels usual anymore.
So when grief shows up months later, or on a random weekday morning in a parking lot, it can hit hard. It can feel like a wave that knocks you down before you even see it coming.
Earlier this week it took me down and tried to pull me under. But the thing I keep coming back to is this: I didn’t drown.
I reached out to a friend. I told the truth about how I was feeling. I let the people around me see that I was struggling instead of pretending I was fine. And somehow, that felt like progress.
Grief is still there. It will probably always be there in some form. But I’m learning that letting people see it, letting them sit beside me in it, is not weakness. It’s part of healing.
And maybe that’s the quiet lesson grief is teaching me now.
The waves may still come, but I am stronger than the ones that try to pull me under. I am learning to swim and surf.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Happy

Kristine Binder

“The best gift you can give your children is them seeing you happy.”
Jeremiah Brent

I’ve spent the better part of the last eleven years being angry. At first, I thought anger was what I needed to survive. It felt active, protective, justified. But the truth is, I’m tired of anger. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired in a way that no amount of rest ever really touches.
What I know now is that beneath the anger has always been sadness.
I’m sad that I lost my immediate family. I’m sad that my children and the people who love me carry anger on my behalf. I’m sad because this is not how I imagined things ending. And I’m sad that people can be cruel in moments when kindness would cost them nothing. My heart has carried all of that for a long time.
The last thirteen months intensified everything. Loss piled on top of loss, and grief was complicated by disappointment, distance, and coldness I wasn’t prepared for. Grief alone is heavy. Grief mixed with betrayal and unkindness settles into the body in ways that change how you move through the world.
I’m tired of living there.
I’ve always been someone who looks for joy. It’s instinctive for me. I’m the helper, the caretaker, the one who holds things together. I know how to create light for others even when I’m running on empty. What I didn’t know how to do – and am learning now – is to choose joy for myself without guilt.
Somewhere along the way, I built walls meant to protect me, but they also kept happiness at arm’s length. I stayed in motion because slowing down felt dangerous. I told myself I was coping, that I was managing, that I was fine. But treading water isn’t the same as swimming, and survival isn’t the same as living.
What shifted for me was realizing how much my kids see.
I don’t want them to see a mother who is always bracing, always exhausted, always carrying the weight of what happened. I don’t want them worrying about me or feeling like they need to protect me. I want them to see what it looks like to choose happiness – not as denial, not as a performance, but as a deliberate act of self-care after years of putting everyone else first.
The gift that keeps on giving isn’t perfection or strength or sacrifice. It’s allowing my children to see me genuinely happy. To see me laugh without restraint. To see me rest without apology. To see me live a life that isn’t defined by grief, even though grief will always be part of my story.
Choosing happiness doesn’t mean the pain disappears. It means it no longer gets to lead. It means I’m allowed to step toward joy even while carrying loss. It means I can honor what I’ve been through without staying stuck there.
I don’t have a dramatic ending or a sudden transformation to offer. What I have is a choice I’m making – again and again – to move toward happiness instead of anger, toward living instead of surviving.
Because Jeremiah Brent is right. The greatest gift I can give my children is letting them see me happy.
I’m still learning how to do that.
But I’m choosing it.
And that choice matters.
For today
and for what comes next
that’s enough.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Grief

Kristine Binder

Grief is a strange, relentless companion. It comes in waves, some so powerful they knock me off my feet, while others gently lap at my ankles before receding into the background. Lately, though, the waves feel more like a storm. The world is so heavy right now, and I can feel that weight pressing down on my chest. Everywhere I turn, there seems to be another loss, another heartbreak, another reason to grieve.
Losing my dad has been a pain I can hardly describe. It’s not just the absence of his voice or his laugh—it’s the absence of his presence in my life, the anchor he provided, the memories we’ll never create. On top of that, dear friends of mine are mourning loved ones. A young person I cherished as if they were my own has left this world far too soon. Each loss feels like another stone added to the pile I carry, threatening to bury me.There are moments when it all feels so overwhelming that I want to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and disappear. The thought of facing another day, carrying another burden, is sometimes too much to bear. But then there are other moments—moments when that grief fuels a fire in me to fight. To show up for my children, my students, my community. To prove that love and resilience can be louder than hate and despair.
Being my mother’s emergency contact now is a new weight I hadn’t prepared for. It’s a role that feels heavy with responsibility and the reminder of how fragile life is. Sometimes, the pressure of it all feels like it might crush me. But then I remember: forward is my pace. Even if it’s just baby steps, I keep moving. One foot in front of the other. One moment at a time.
Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t go away. It shifts, it changes, and it continues to wash over me in unexpected moments. Some days, I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water. Other days, I find glimmers of peace when the waves recede. But within those waves, I try to find the strength to swim. To reach out to others. To remind myself that while the world feels heavy, we don’t have to carry it alone.
Peace is not always easy to find, but it is there—waiting in the moments when the waves recede, offering us the chance to catch our breath. Let’s take those baby steps together, reminding ourselves that we don’t have to face it alone. In the moments when the storm calms, we can find breath, and maybe even hope, together.
If you’re reading this and you’re feeling the weight of your own grief, know that you’re not alone. Take those baby steps, no matter how small. Cry if you need to. Rest if you can. Fight when you’re ready. And remember: forward is always a pace.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Numb

Kristine Binder

Death. 
Grief. 
Sadness. 
Loss. 
Numbness.
This week three people close to me passed away.
All were sudden and two were young…in the prime of life. 
And I have not cried. 
Not one single tear has escaped my eyes. 
I am numb. 
My heart aches for the families of these people and I want to take away their pain.  But my only real feeling is guilt. I feel guilty for surviving. I feel guilty for my blessings. I feel so horribly guilty for not feeling anything else at all. 
I just don’t know what to feel or how to feel it. I am so afraid to allow myself to really grieve. I am afraid that once I open that door, I will not be able to close it. I am scared that if I feel anything, it will overwhelm me. I have been in that place of all consuming grief before and almost did not make it out. I am so terrified that if I allow myself to go down that rabbit hole again, this time I will not make it out alive. And for that I feel more guilt. 
So I wonder if my numbness is my soul protecting itself. I wonder if my numbness is my heart closing ranks and saying, “Not now. It’s too heavy for you to carry.” I wonder if my head got all those messages and has shut down the circuits so as not to cause a complete system failure. 
Perhaps someday I will  feel safe enough to feel all the feelings. But, for now,  I will carry on through each day, meeting expectations and helping others with their grief while I remain numb. 
For now I will be grateful for the mercy of numbness. 
Peace.
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Loss

Kristine Binder

I took some time recently to look at old photos. I was reminded of so many people I have loved and lost. Not one was a perfect person but they were good souls who helped me grow into the woman I am now. I miss them deeply. Family and friends that have left the planet….some too soon as they were so young.
I wonder why they had to go. My faith tells me that they must have fulfilled their purpose but my heart longs for more time with each. I am often angry that they are gone and I am left to explain the loss to others and myself. I am left with a hole in my heart where they used to be. I am left with words unsaid and advice unheard. I ride the waves of grief years later wondering what if…..
I also wonder why…why them? Why is it is good ones? The ones that are loved so deeply? Why do they leave this world and we are left with others who cause pain and anguish? What is the lesson here? Is it me that has lessons to learn or have these others on the planet been given more time to change before having to face their maker?
To those men who I have loved and lost, you will always be missed and never be forgotten. Your legacy will live on.
To the women who have taught me so many important lessons before leaving me…. I love you and I miss you. I long for one last long conversation with you. I promise to carry your legacy or strength. I promise to always make you proud. Your legacy will live on.
Who do you miss? Who have you loved and lost? What is the best memory you have of that person? What is the most important lesson they taught you?
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace