This Wasn’t the Plan, But It’s Honest
Grief, gratitude, and the magic of showing up anyway
When I started this whole Substack/blog/whatever-you-wanna-call-it situation, I had zero expectations. Truly. I figured I’d jot down a few thoughts, maybe share a story or two, probably overshare at some point—as is my spiritual gift (emotional dramatics included, of course)—and that would be that. I didn’t think anyone would actually care to read it... but y’all proved me wrong. (Look at you, making me feel feelings.)
What I really didn’t expect was that this space would become part of how I process my grief. But surprise! Here we are. Some days the grief is heavy, and some days it’s just lingering in the background like a sad trombone (and yes, I played trombone growing up—so trust me, I know a dramatic slide when I feel one). But writing—putting words to all the messy, holy, ridiculous, tender stuff—has helped me breathe a little deeper. Not in some zen, mountain-meditation kind of way, but in that real, human way where the weight on your chest lifts just enough to let in a fuller breath. It’s the kind of breathing that comes after a cry, or a laugh, or a truth finally spoken. That’s what this has been for me.
I still have no idea what this space will turn into. A digital journal? A confessional booth with better lighting? A cozy quilt of thoughts and stories and prayers and sass? Who knows. But for now, it’s enough. I’m enough. And that reminder alone is worth a lot.
Thanks for being here, for reading, for showing up with me in the mess and the magic.
More soon. Probably with more feelings.
XO,
James
