Grief

Happy Book Birthday!

What if grief didn’t have to be so isolating? We’ve all lost parts of our lives over the last five years. And we need stories of hope and recovery in a world that continues to ache.

Whether you are in the throes of immediate loss, or years down the road from heartache, this book will call you to the hope and healing found in quiet moments as you practice choosing joy while tending to your despair.

I’m thrilled to share “Grief Cookies & Other Comforting Things” is available today at retailers everywhere.

Thank you to the many people who helped me bring this book to life! While impossible to mention everyone, I’m grateful to Claire Schneeberger, Franklin Taggart, Liesel Mindrebo Mertes, Annie Herzig, Zach Mercurio, Ph.D., Carla Fernandez, Margo Fowkes, Tanja Pajevic, Alexia Paul, Beth Wright and her team, Teresa Funke and my book launch team for the support over the past year!

Get your copy on Amazon
Get your copy on Bookshop.org
Get your copy at Barnes & Noble

In the Picture Window

My grandmother always started the prayer before dinner with this:
“In the rush of a busy day, oh Lord, we pause to give you thanks…”

Ironically, I don’t remember the rest of the prayer. I’m sure the blessing involved gratitude for food and abundance. The specifics were important at the time, but they’ve faded, as too have our prayers at the dinner table.

Instead, I often find myself rushing, from here to there, from dream to dream. And I think of Grandma and how she could get us all to pause, just for a moment, before we ate.

As I was rushing from the office to do daycare pickup, I found myself stalled in a long line of traffic. Red break lights shone for miles ahead of me, as the construction for the new grocery store in town brought the three-lane road down to one.

While I waited, I turned my head to the left, noticing a small alterations studio alongside road. In the large picture window, lit up by bright fluorescent lights, a young bride was standing in her gown.

I couldn’t see her face, only the veil cascading down her back. I watched her lift on to her toes as the seamstress and friends held mounds of fabric. I watched her bounce in the light.

There’s a lot happening right now, much of it shocking and sad. I find myself rushing, away from headlines, and towards the different outcomes I hope we can create. But sometimes, the break lights are there for a reason.

In that picture window, someone was excited about the future she was hoping to create. She was surrounded by white, literally glowing. And she was moving towards a new chapter, hopefully eager and with joy.

We don’t have to be brides to understand the anticipation of change. And sometimes, we need help remembering what it feels like to be on our toes, bouncing towards what could be.

I want more of that energy in this season.

Less rushing, more light. More white.

Beautiful things.

It’s Glittering

I’ve been working with an editor to turn this blog into a book. It’s a humbling experience, having a trusted partner cut ten years of musings into under 200 pages. As Stephen King says, “Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”

I fear that after ten years, what I appreciate may have become repetitive. Yes, my attention has been on gleaning and refining rather than generating new ideas, but I know in the cuts, I’ve held back here. I don’t want to bore you. Perhaps I’ve drawn attention to similar noticing many times before.

This morning, standing in the garage in negative temperatures, I counted to five in my head, trying to get my toddler into her carseat. The exercise tests my patience and my invites profound mindfulness. As I waited for her to pull her growing body up into her seat, on her own of course, I turned to wait.

Just beyond the driveway, I watched ice crystals glimmer in the sun and the frigid breeze.

“Look baby!” I exclaimed. “It’s glittering outside.”

And with that invitation to redirect attention, she sat her tiny butt in the seat in awe.

It’s glittering outside.

A good developmental editor can review thousands of words and find themes, building story arcs in the bulk of material. She is helping me find the glitter.

I’m not one to usually run out of words, but I am changing direction here. Posts will slow as I work to turn this collection into something with a cover. I hope you’ll continue to read when a post does emerge.

With ten years of practice, the exercise in looking for beautiful things has become a part of me. I focus on the connections in conversations happening next to me at coffee shops. The excited hellos, an older gentleman leaning down to pick up a glove my kid dropped on the sidewalk, the warmth found in a cup of tea.

In these divided times, calls to action seem loud and demand quick and constant attention. I’ve committed, though, to the appreciation for the mini moments that bring us hope in our moments of frustration, disconnect, and grief. Small is mighty. Repetition can turn to ritual.

Today, the branches were blowing, offering light in the cold. Tomorrow, there will be something different.

Maybe I’ll capture it here, but really, I hope all of this work helps you remember, to capture these beautiful things in your own hearts. Our world needs more calm and compassionate seekers.

Stay tuned, a book is coming, and in the waiting remember, we need the beautiful things. More than ever.

Find your darlings. Find your darlings. Delight in something beautiful.

PS – If you feel compelled to help finance the project of turning the blog into a book, I’ll happily accept support. I’ll also be building a book launch team later this year. Send me an email at katie at katiehuey.com and I’ll send you the info.

Twirling

We made it through another one. Father’s Day mixed with emotions – gratitude, remembering, looking forward, hating for just a moment, Hallmark. As we sat around a shared table for dinner, I thought to myself, my husband is the only adult at this table who hasn’t lost a father. Odd to be in similar company of people my parent’s age. Odder still that where I put the apostrophe matters.

And as with most holidays, I twirled between wanting to be present and wanting to turn towards the ache of missing someone so profound without forgetting those still here with me. How do I celebrate life and mourn the dead?

I tried.

“Now I enter the “safe zone”, I spat, ruminating to myself sarcastically. While no month is “safe” from grief, there’s an ease that comes with the end of June as I look out towards the rest of summer. From now until October, the gremlin seems to behave herself.

Most evenings these days we turn on music after dinner, and if I’m lucky, my toddler will let me pick her up to give her a squeeze. We spin and hold hands, dancing in the kitchen. “More Mama, more” she’ll often request. And in the twirling, memories are made.

There’s a new sweetness to this summer. Her sticky neck and red cheeks from the days heating up. She insists on putting on sandals by herself, requiring deep levels of patience and persistence from both of us. She finds exuberant joy in learning how to control a hose. Popsicles are messy work. You forget how much you take for granted already knowing when you’ve got a little creature soaking in so very much.

And in this early-summer space I want to remember the evening spins, as I watch the roller coaster slow. The trolley care has been put into neutral, shifting down the grief hill we’ve been climbing for quite some time.

I want to be twirling in colors and sniffing the deep scent of tomato leaves off my hands, as I watch a little human grow. Maybe I can be more kind to myself, allowing what comes next to appear.

More Mama, More. Hold on tight.

We go pretty fast. But it’s in the early evening light, as the sun sets and my patience gets tested, where beauty is found. Twirl with me.

Just a Little Bit Scared

Today, my dad would have been 67.

As I typed that, I sat and inhaled. My brain can’t fathom 67. He died at 58. That’s a big gap.

I stared at the sentence, letting the weight of it seep into the virtual page. 67.

I have a hard time imagining what he’d look like today. In the gap, my appearance has changed. I’m softer in some places, and gray pieces of hair grow in where postpartum stole clumps from my scalp. My mother’s hands are changing, while his remain stuck in old photographs. We have a child who didn’t exist when he did. He didn’t get the chance to age.

Instead, our memories of him are aging. We went to breakfast this morning to celebrate his birthday. In the corner case sat mugs of yesteryear – with over ten different styles taking the restaurant and its branding back in time. As we honor his birth, I noticed those mugs and thought there are versions of ourselves that sit and watch, and those that get to keep moving forward.

I don’t think of Dad stuck in the past – he’s present with us in different forms. But sometimes I wonder, how would he have aged? And how have I? What does the new mug say to the old? How much have the windows witnessed as diners came and went, throughout decades of life.

I’m working with a coach lately to get more clarity on what I want to bring into my life next. I’ve got a vision and hopes and dreams. In our call today I told her that where I was sitting, in my own office at the foot of the stairs, is a dream come true. Five years ago I had a vision, and a hope for such a place, but no sure path to get there. Yet, here I sit, talking on Zoom or typing these blogs, in the manifestation of a dream come true. The reminder was refreshing. I know what I want, but I’m not quite sure how to get there next.

There’s a scene in the newest Little Women movie, where Jo is telling Marmi just how angry she is at the state of being a girl. Marmi responds, “I am angry nearly every day of my life.”

Today, when the coach asked me, “What does scared Katie need to hear from brave Katie?” I thought of Jo. I, too, have been a little bit scared, most days of my life. And most days, I don’t let the scared stop me.

I held my daughter on my lap as we ate hash browns in a booth this morning. Her hair brushed my chin as we shared a cinnamon roll. The choice to bring her into the world scared me deeply. Yet, if I’m lucky, perhaps we’ll keep bringing her to the same place where my dad liked to sit at the counter and sip coffee. My hands will change. She will grow. And the story will continue to change.

My hope is that I can be just a little bit scared. And go ahead, and do it anyway. What a beautiful thing.

If you’re interested in following along with what I’m hoping to create next, visit my website and sign up for e-updates. I look forward to growing and aging with you. Scared or not, here I come.

Another One

As spring storms came and went this last week, so too did my waves of grief. Under branches laden with wet snow, I was transported back to the drive I took eight years ago, pulling into the driveway where my father no longer would be. Walking in the solid front door, that year, I hugged my brother and we sat and stared, not sure what to do before the family descended. I made inappropriate jokes. I choked, I’m sure, on my words, and my spit. When a few relatives showed up, we ordered Chili’s and tried to chew.

And this year, making the same drive, a toddler babbled in my backseat, unfamiliar with our family patterns or notions of a death anniversary. While the wounds are no longer seeping, their marks still remain. We ate cheeseburgers at the same table we sat at eight years ago, although its parallel orientation in the room now is just enough disruption to remind us that, yes, we all have changed.

I’m pleased to be on the downward slide towards April. While my body is remembering, exhaling, and less tense, I find gentle reminders that this week, every year, will be tough. It’s cocky to think otherwise. For when you lose a metaphorical limb, a figure head, a family anchor, the phantom limb still quakes.

I found my father in the discounts I received at the gas station and in the eyes of the hawk that sits above us, perched on the light post we pass every morning on our way to drop off. In the way my brother says hello when he comes up the stairs. In the sweatshirts we took out of bottom drawers, musty in their comforting embrace.

I wanted to write something more pleasant, lighter, more free. I no longer feel like grief is a ball and chain, though I can feel the scars from the cuffs on my ankles. So, yes, it was a hard week. Naming that in exhale is importantly beautiful.

And, two friends had babies, and the afternoon light pours in, gracing the plant I almost killed out of neglect with a second chance at surviving. My fingers continue to clack across the keyboard, and thoughts fill my head and my heart. We look towards Easter. Another time of resurrection. We made it through another one. And that is a beautiful thing.

In My Own Little Home

I recently had a coach ask me the question, “Seven years from now, how will you know the choices you made reflect the social change you want to be a part of?”

You can’t answer a question like that in one sitting. There are so many layers to my answers as I think about the next seven years. In seven years I’ll have a third grader. Hopefully there will be a president with a name we have only barely heard of today. Hopefully, we’ll have better care for children and the cost of groceries will go down. It is so easy for me to spin into possibilities of what might be that I miss what is, right now.

What I liked about the question, as mind-blowing as it was, is the reminder that the choices we make today also matter in the large scope of social change. As I spend my Friday afternoons with my daughter, I’m choosing to honor caregiving in a different way. I highlight the myth of work-life balance and sit in the truth that our choices reflect how we want to be in the world. I type. Baby naps. I feel guilty for being away from the office.

A follow up question the coach asked was, “What will you gain by making this sacrifice?” At first, I was angry. I don’t want to have to sacrifice. I want to “have it all” or at least be proud of what I’m giving up, which I think was the intention behind her question. After further reflection I’ve come to my answer – I’m gaining the freedom to live into the social change I want to see.

I want my choices to build spaces where mothers are welcomed and given space to nurture their children and also be valued as employees. Spaces where rest is valued and treasured as much as outcomes and outputs. Spaces where grief and loss and uncomfortable, hard realities are named and held with compassion. Spaces where we hold one another with tenderness and then get back up again, holding hands, to face whatever comes next.

I’ve spent a lot of this week angry at the system – the motherhood tax, the war overseas, the scary political situation that still exists here in the idealized version of America. I get frustrated at a lack of empathy or care for one another. And my anger has told me that, again, it is in our choices where we get to make change.

So, for those of you wondering how to make sense of what’s unfolding for you, I hope you remember you have power in what you say yes to. And power in what you say no to. And power in holding dear the change you are trying to make in your own little world, on your own little street, in your own little home.

And those choices are beautiful things.

Join Me at Founded in FoCo!

Founded in FoCo has done an excellent job curating stories and workshops to bring humanity to work for this year’s gathering. I’m excited to share I’ll be leading a writing workshop titled “Actually, There Are Words” designed to help us all find the words for tough experiences. Whether you’re a leader, an employee, or a business owner, this 45-minute experience will have you re-thinking the phrase, “There are no words” when we all struggle. I hope you’ll join me.

Well meaning people will say, “There are no words” when faced with difficult life experiences. In my experience, that silly little phrase is simply not true. Most of us have LOTS of words and few folks are comfortable hearing them! In this interactive workshop, you will use wordplay, poetry, and writing prompts to practice putting words to the experiences that are difficult in our organizations and our personal lives. Designed for all writing skill levels, we will build on the basics and tap into creative expression. Grace, compassion, and sense of humor welcome.

Registration is open for the week of events!

I’m also working on a new monthly newsletter to share updates and opportunities. Email me back if you’d like to receive updates.

Constant Companion

We were driving from story time to get lunch when my mom said, “Grief’s a pretty constant companion these days. I’m no longer afraid of her showing up.” I inhaled deeply as she spoke, integrating the power and the truth of this realization. I call my grief a gremlin. She lives in my heart pocket and has wings like a crow and claws she keeps trimmed, though they come out every so often. Her big eyes are round and deep blue, and when I’m hurting, they look deep into me with a knowing so profound. This little gremlin sees me, if I let her.

We lost another matriarch last week. Dylan’s grandmother passed at the age of 94. Her decline was quick, perhaps it always is. Though we knew the end was coming, I’m always sensitive to the sucking away of air leaving the room when you get the news. When I received the text, it was early. We held hands and in the pause, welcomed again the little gremlin as she crawled out of the warm place where she lives. I wept when making travel arrangements, and again in bedrooms when we went back to her home.

Grief, if we let it, is a constant companion. March is coming and I miss my dad ever so much. When telling baby of the loss, she repeated me saying, “Grandma died.” Then, after her pause, said, “She went home with Papa.” Perhaps the children know more than we do.

And as grief walks alongside, life still happens. Emails pile in. To-do lists loom. The text messages buzz, reminding me of connection and purpose and pull my brain in perpendicular directions. After a busy weekend, and snacks for dinner, I found a rare moment of rest on the couch Sunday evening. At 8:30 pm, after the bedtime routine, I was scrounging in the pantry for a little something. I filled a pot, watched water boil, and made pasta, letting the steam reach my face for just a few moments. I melted butter, sizzled garlic, and pulled together a silky sauce to coat my carbs. I poured myself a glass of wine, and at a time too late for supper, sank into the couch to nourish myself. I patted the seat next to me, inviting the gremlin onto the cushions.

Turning to the episode of “The Crown” where the Queen loses her sister, I let the waves of tenderness wash over me. Relationships are complicated. We try to connect, we miss, we try again. We anger and we make-up. And in the end, we lose. And we love. Bowls of pasta help. The welcoming, again, of our grief as friend, is a beautiful thing.

An Anniversary – 10 Things Seeking Beauty Has Taught Me

This little blog turns ten this year. Thanks to the archive, I know I wrote 47 posts that first year in 2014. In 2022, after welcoming a new baby, I only wrote twelve. Life, and its demands, have changed a bit. I did write slightly more in 2023, but certainly not at the weekly rate, and I’m not sure what 2024 will have in store. I worry about sharing my free ideas with ChatGPT, and how artists and writers are compromised with the advance of AI. I weigh sleep over exercise, and sending emails over creating new content. Regardless, in this ten year journey, the continued practice of seeking the beautiful as the world continues to grow more connected and more tumultuous has brought a multitude of gifts.

For this first post of 2024, I’m sharing ten things the pursuit of beautiful things has taught me in the last ten years.

  1. The world, perhaps, has always been a little bit messed up. Still, there is joy. Pay attention.
    R.E.M once quipped “It’s the end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine.) Since the beginning of time the sky has been falling, things are shifting, and changing. And yes, in the last ten years things have felt bleaker, heavier, and perhaps more important than the previous ten. And I believe, you see what you look for. Turn off the news. Bring cookies to a neighbor. You, too, can create joy. What do you need to do to feel fine?
  2. Hope takes practice.
    Our brains are programmed to seek out the negative. It keeps us safe. I’ve learned, however, in a world that constantly feels dangerous, finding beautiful things keeps me feeling hopeful and optimistic. Hope, for me, is a practice of choosing the good, over and over again. Beauty expands when we seek it repetitively.
  3. Most people are in some type of pain. Expressing it helps.
    Our culture sucks at finding words for difficult experiences. Each of us are suffering in some way and we’re told to keep that pain to ourselves or in quiet rooms where professionals help you problem solve. I’ve found so much community and belonging with people who are able to hold both beauty and pain, side by side, as we work towards healing. I’m not alone.
  4. Awe is an underrated experience.
    How much of life we take for granted. When I really stop to think about all the things that do go right on any given day, I’m filled with awe. Yesterday, I watched my daughter chase bubbles across a winter lawn. Her grasping for tiny purple orbs while squealing with delight brought me back to a grounded place. A tiny human chasing soap. Amazing.
  5. We need each other.
    Americans like to believe we are independent. Grief, Covid, and motherhood have taught me that while our experiences are unique, there are common threads to the human experience that can connect us if we let it. We need each other. We need soup and phone calls and texts and connection. We need reminders that when things are heavy, others can shoulder the weight of both our worlds and the big ol’ world. And when things feel light, we need to invite others to dance with us in the rays of goodness. Beauty expands when it is shared.
  6. Not everyone will grow with you. That’s ok.
    In the last ten years, I changed jobs and I said a lot of good-byes. Co-workers moved on, friends moved, and some family members stopped responding to texts. I made short-term connections and cried when people I thought would stick around didn’t. Not everyone is growing in the same way you are, and that’s ok. This truth doesn’t detract from the beauty individuals bring in different chapters along the way.
  7. Chin Up, dear.
    In times of transition, stress, and distress, it’s easy to get tunnel vision and forget what else is going on that is positive. When I’m feeling bleak, I remind myself to cup my own face and say, “Chin up, dear.” The slight tilt up brings a different perspective at the reminder that while my situation may be less than ideal, somewhere across the way someone else is experiencing great joy. Coffee is being brewed, friends are hugging at airports, babies are being born.
  8. The practice is worthy
    Yes, I have dreams of turning this project into a book, and it would be nice to be discovered. Perhaps all artists want to be found. But, I’ve learned that weekly writing, or as it has devolved to less, is still worthy of existing. I don’t need an agent or a book deal or a long newsletter list for the work to matter. Even if the posts bring in only 54 cents a month. To know the posts meet at least one each week still bring the work worth. The dedication to the project and how it has transformed me is worth enough.
  9. Beauty is often quiet.
    There’s a lot of noise out there. Returning to the beautiful often takes the deliberate choice to turn down the noise and to tune into what you know to be true. Witnessing may require calm. Beauty doesn’t demand attention and it doesn’t yell. It’s in the silence that we may be moved to tears.
  10. Now, more than ever.
    People are so scared. People are so beautiful. Now, more than ever, I believe we can use the pursuit of beautiful things to connect us with compassion and grace. Humans have capacity for both darkness and light. And I believe, when we train ourselves to look for the beautiful, we can change ourselves and in turn, trickle out to change the world.

Here’s to the continued search and however many posts come next.