Sometimes I get hit by a wave of grief so deep and profound that it takes my breath away. Literally. Like I can’t even breathe because if I do–if I take that next breath, the one that my body is in dire need of–I fear the pain and the heartache and the sadness will overtake me and I will drown in it. Mixed metaphors aside, I hurt.

My sweet grandma, the person to whom I owe my kindness, sewing skills, and my hoarding tendencies (my phone autocorrected that to “hosting” tendencies which, I suppose is also true), is gone. She has been gone now for seven months as of last week. And it still doesn’t feel real. I can’t count the number of times I’ve picked up the phone to call her or have taken a photo of something I’ve made so I can email it to her.

I am flying back to California in three days. It will be the first time I’ve been there, I’ve been home, since she’s been gone. I am terrified.

Glennon Doyle Melton, author of one of my all-time favorite books said in a video she recently posted,

most of the magic in my life has happened when my heart has been shattered

And I know that’s true, as hard as that is to swallow. Here’s to some magic when I’m there later this week…

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