Tag: loss

Edith

Kristine Binder

I Finally Gave My Grief a Name.
I Call Her Edith.
When I first said those words out loud, they felt strange. Almost silly. Why would I name my grief?
The idea actually came from my therapist. She suggested that instead of thinking of grief as something that is me, I could think of it as someone who simply walks alongside me. Someone who has a name, a personality, and even human characteristics. She explained that if grief became a person instead of an emotion, I could begin to have a relationship with it. Some days it might come with me. Some days I might ask it to wait outside. Some days I might leave it at home entirely. The goal wasn’t to get rid of my grief. The goal was to stop believing that grief was who I was.
So, I named her Edith.
I don’t know exactly why I chose that name. Maybe it’s because Edith feels comfortable, like someone I’ve always known. Like a distant relative whose name I heard throughout my childhood but never really knew. Someone who was always there in family stories, yet remained a bit of a mystery. Over time, though, we’ve gotten to know each other. We’ve developed a relationship. It wasn’t exactly the relationship I would have chosen, but apparently Edith wasn’t asking for my opinion.
These days, Edith feels less like a stranger and more like an old sweater. She’s familiar. Comfortable. Soft around the edges. Sometimes I don’t even realize she’s wrapped herself around my shoulders until I stop and notice she’s there. Other days, she sits quietly in the corner, barely asking for my attention at all. She’s old-fashioned, quiet, and wise. She doesn’t demand attention, but she’s never very far away. She also has absolutely no concept of appropriate timing. She’s shown up in the grocery store because I walked past my dad’s favorite cookies, in the middle of a bookstore because I found one I wanted to tell him about, and at the beach because a sunset reminded me of my mom. I’ve gently suggested she work on her timing. She’s gently ignored me.
Some mornings Edith greets me before my feet hit the floor. She reminds me that my parents aren’t here to answer the phone and Kelly isn’t going to respond to my text. She sits beside me when I read a book I want to tell my dad about, catch the scent of my mom’s perfume on an old sweater, or hear a song Kelly loved. She also has impeccable timing if I’m wearing mascara. Other days, she’s barely noticeable. She lets me laugh with friends, lose myself in a good book, or watch a sunset without whispering in my ear. She’s still there—I know she is—but she gives me room to breathe and the space to experience joy without guilt. On those days, I like to imagine she’s off having coffee with someone else’s grief.
Giving my grief a name didn’t make it disappear. It made it understandable.
Before Edith, grief felt like an unpredictable wave crashing over me without warning. Now I recognize her. I can say, “Edith is having a hard day today,” instead of believing that I am falling apart. That small shift has changed more than I ever imagined.
Instead of fighting my grief, I can become curious about it. What does Edith need today? Sometimes she needs me to cry. Sometimes she needs me to tell another story about my parents because speaking their names keeps them close. Some days she wants me to read old messages from Kelly. Sometimes she simply wants to sit quietly beside me while I drink my morning coffee. She’s actually pretty low-maintenance. Coffee, a good cry, and the occasional old voicemail seem to keep her happy.
And sometimes, she doesn’t need to come with me at all.
There are days when I leave Edith at home. Not because I love the people I’ve lost any less. Not because I’ve forgotten them or “moved on.” But because grief doesn’t have to accompany me to every lunch with friends, every outing, every concert, or every joyful moment. She’ll still be there when I get home, and somehow I think she understands.
I’ve learned it’s healthy for us to spend a little time apart. Every relationship needs boundaries, right? Besides, if Edith came to every dinner, beach day, and concert, we’d probably both be exhausted. A little space is good for us. And truthfully, she’s gotten much better about letting me enjoy the happy moments before quietly reminding me that love and grief have always shared the same heart.
Perhaps that’s the greatest gift of naming her. I no longer see grief as something that happened to me or something I have to carry alone. I see her as a companion who arrived because love came first.
Edith only exists because my people existed. She walks beside me because my parents loved me. Because Kelly loved me. Because so many others left fingerprints on my heart that time could never erase. The depth of my grief is simply a reflection of the depth of my love. I wouldn’t know Edith if I hadn’t first known them.
If I had my druthers, I never would have chosen to meet her. If I had the choice, I’d trade every lesson she’s taught me for one more call, one more hug, one more ordinary day with the people I miss. But since she’s here, we’ve learned how to be together. Like every long-term relationship, we’ve found our rhythm. She reminds me to slow down and remember. I remind her that it’s okay for me to laugh, to travel, to fall in love with life again. We’ve discovered that there is room for both joy and sorrow, and neither one has to cancel out the other.
I’ve come to believe that grief isn’t the opposite of love. It’s love searching for somewhere to go. My love for my people doesn’t simply disappear. It still exists. It still needs somewhere to live. For me, it walks beside me. It bears the name Edith.
Maybe that’s why naming her has been so healing. It hasn’t made the grief smaller, and it certainly hasn’t made me miss my people any less. But it has reminded me that grief is not a sign that something is wrong. It’s evidence that I loved deeply and was loved in return.
We didn’t choose each other, Edith and I. But after spending this much time together, it seemed only right that we learned each other’s names.
The truth is, neither of us is going anywhere.
So we’ve learned to be together. We’ve learned each other’s rhythms. We’ve learned when to hold on a little tighter and when to give each other some space. And somewhere along the way, I stopped wishing she would disappear and started appreciating why she has become a part of my life.
Because without Edith, I don’t know that I would fully understand the depth of the love I was so fortunate to experience. She’s no longer just my grief. She’s become the keeper of my memories, the guardian of my love, and the gentle reminder that the people who shaped my life are still shaping my heart.
So now I’m curious…
If you gave your grief a name, what would it be? Or maybe it isn’t grief at all. Maybe it’s anxiety. Fear. Hope. Joy. Regret. Courage.
What would happen if, instead of trying to outrun that feeling, you invited it to sit beside you long enough to understand why it came? Sometimes the feelings we spend the most energy resisting are simply asking to be acknowledged.
Maybe they deserve a name.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Routes

Kristine Binder
I needed to remember that even though the people are gone, the stories are still here. The memories are still alive inside me.

There are some drives that are more than just getting from one place to another. Some roads carry memories in the pavement. Yesterday, without realizing it, I took one of those drives.
I don’t believe in coincidences. I never have. I think things show up when we need them, even if we don’t understand why at first.
Yesterday I had to take my fur-baby to the vet because he’s been limping again. The same vet who did his surgeries years ago. I had never been to this office which meant an hour drive each way, so I plugged the address into my navigation app and off we went.
What I didn’t expect was that the route would take me straight through pieces of my life I haven’t visited in years. Past the community college where I earned summer credits. Past the church where I got married. Past the YMCA where I took swimming lessons as a little girl.
Road after road that I hadn’t driven in forever somehow came back like muscle memory. Every turn familiar. Every landmark holding a story. And honestly? It was exactly what my heart needed.
At the vet, we waited for what felt like forever. Once everything was cleared and I was told it was age and arthritis….just like his momma….the vet and I were talking afterward, I could feel myself sitting right on the edge of tears the entire time. I told him I know my dog is getting older. I know that day will come someday. But not now. Please not now. And then I cried.
I told him how I recently lost both my parents and how strangely cathartic this drive had been for me. He asked where I grew up and I told him. Turns out he lives in that same small town now.
Ten years. I’ve been going to this vet for over ten years and I’m just finding this out now? Such a small world.
As I left, my GPS routed me home a different way and about a block from the vet was the marine store where my family spent so much time when I was growing up. Boats. Water skis. Snow skis. Equipment lined up everywhere. So many Saturdays with my dad walking through those aisles. So many summers built around the water. So many winters built around the snow.
And in that moment I wanted so badly to tell someone those stories. To laugh about them with someone who remembered. But the people who shared those memories with me are gone from my life now. Those memories belong only to me. That realization is both beautiful and heartbreaking.
As I drove, Grateful Dead playing through my speakers, I found myself smiling at every little thing I remembered. Each memory healing something in me. Tiny stitches closing up parts of a broken heart. It’s funny how grief works.
When your parents die, the good and the bad goes with them. They are the only people who really knew you from day one. The only people who knew every version of you. Every phase. Every family story. Every triumph and heartbreak and embarrassing moment and inside joke. And then suddenly that connection is gone. And sometimes when parents go, the connection to siblings and extended family changes too. The glue that held everyone together is gone. The person who softened tensions, organized holidays, insisted people stay connected, covered the cracks… they’re no longer here.
That grief is its own kind of loss too. The grieving of it all is layered. But like I said, I don’t believe in coincidences. I think those roads found me yesterday for a reason. I think my soul needed familiar places. Familiar turns. Familiar memories. I needed to remember that even though the people are gone, the stories are still here. The memories are still alive inside me. I carry the family lore now. I carry the history. I carry them.
And somehow that feels both unbearably heavy and completely priceless at the same time.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

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