Part 6: Still Here

There are days where you don’t have words for it.

No deep reflections.
No lessons learned.

Just… presence.

You wake up.
You move through the day.
You breathe.

And that’s it.

And somehow…

that’s enough.

Not because everything is okay.

But because you are still here.

Still standing.

Still breathing.

Even in the middle of everything that shifted.

From He Didn’t

“Still here
Still standing…”

Often, we underestimate the courage it takes to simply be present.

There are moments when grief arrives without warning.

A song.
A memory.
A date on the calendar.

And suddenly it feels like the air has been knocked from your chest.

Grief comes in waves.

Sometimes gentle.
Sometimes violent.

Sometimes it washes over you so heavily you wonder if you’ll ever make it back to the surface.

And if all you’re doing in that moment is surviving it…

that deserves to be acknowledged.

A friend once told me that the depth of our grief is evidence of the depth of our love.

If we hadn’t loved deeply, it wouldn’t hurt this much.

I’ve carried that thought with me.

Because despite the pain, I hope I never lose the courage to love deeply.

Even knowing how much it can cost.

Loss has a way of tempting us toward self-protection.

To keep people at arm’s length.

To convince ourselves that distance is safer than connection.

That if we don’t let people get too close, they can’t leave a wound behind.

I’ve done that.

I’ve built walls.
I’ve kept my distance.
I’ve tried to protect my heart.

But eventually I realized that what I called protection was often just fear wearing a different name.

Because every wall that keeps pain out also keeps something beautiful from getting in.

The friendships.
The memories.
The laughter.
The love.

The moments that bring color to a life that can sometimes feel far too gray.

And little by little, I realized that holding people at arm’s length wasn’t really living.

It was existing safely.

There’s a difference.

I once heard an illustration from John Piper about reaching the end of your life and standing before God saying, “Look at my collection of seashells.”

The point wasn’t that seashells are bad.

It was that a life spent avoiding risk, avoiding purpose, avoiding meaningful connection, can become tragically small.

And that’s never been the life I wanted.

I’ve always been a bit of a risk-taker.

Not because I’m fearless.

But because I know what happens when fear gets to decide.

It shrinks your world.

So if the choice is between standing safely on the shore or stepping into the deep where love, purpose, and connection live…

I’ll take the risk.

Every time.

Because I’d rather experience the beauty and heartbreak that come with loving deeply than spend my life protected from pain but untouched by wonder.

And maybe that’s part of moving forward too.

Not pretending loss didn’t happen.

Not pretending grief doesn’t hurt.

But deciding that grief won’t be the thing that teaches you to stop loving.

Instead, letting it remind you just how much love is worth.