Honor Your Story

Deep Pain, Deep Love

I met with a spiritual advisor in July.

He handed me a small wooden heart with the words Deep Pain, Deep Love carved into it.

Those words have stayed with me ever since — simple, but true.

The more I live with them, the more I understand how deeply they speak to what grief really is.

We all have a story.

This is part of mine — a story of love and loss, of pain and healing, of learning to carry both.

It’s uniquely mine — every joy, every sorrow, every moment I wish I could change and every one I’d live again a thousand times.

All of it has shap transformation along the way.ed who I am today.

Pain can harden us. It can make us build walls, shut down, and turn away from the world.

But it can also open us — if we let it.

That’s the hardest part: sitting in the uncomfortable, feeling what you wish you didn’t have to feel, and learning to carry both love and pain in the same breath.

The love I feel for Elijah is immense — bigger than words.

And right beside it lives the ache of missing him.

I carry both every day. I’m still trying to figure out how to live with both.

Some days, I do what my nervous system can handle.

I cry. I scream. I sit in the quiet.

I write. I create. I draw.

These small acts help me release what words alone can’t hold.

It hasn’t been easy, but somehow, even in the midst of pain, I keep noticing the beauty around me — in my family, my grandchildren, my kids, and the people who love me through this.

They are part of what keeps me going, what reminds me that love is still here, still alive in the connections that surround me.

There are moments when I want to escape the ache — when I reach for comfort in food, or let myself disappear into a Netflix series, just to quiet my mind for a while.

Sometimes I need that. It gives my nervous system a break.

I understand why people turn to things that numb the pain — alcohol, drugs, anything that can make it stop for a while.

I understand it deeply. But I also know that’s not the path for me.

Instead, I try to let the pain move through me, rather than get stuck inside me.

When we hold it in, it hardens us. The container fills, and then it spills out — often in ways we don’t mean, onto people we love.

So I write. I cry. I create. I move when I can.

It’s how I empty the container, little by little.

It’s how I keep from closing off completely.

There are days I think about the woman I was before — strong, active, grounded in her body.

I miss that version of me sometimes.

I used to lift weights, do yoga, feel powerful in my own skin.

Now, some days, I can barely summon the energy to stretch or walk.

For a while, that brought guilt. I thought, I should be doing more. I should be stronger by now.

But I’m learning that healing has seasons.

Right now, my body asks for gentleness, not punishment.

Sometimes movement looks like a walk. Sometimes it looks like rest.

And that’s okay.

This isn’t about perfection — it’s about presence.

I’m still learning, still discovering what I need, still listening — to my body, to others, to the quiet voice within.

I’m learning to validate people’s feelings instead of trying to fix them.

To simply say, I hear you. You’re not alone.

Because that’s what this whole journey is — a circle of giving and receiving.

The more I allow myself to heal, the more I can offer hope to someone else who’s still finding their way.

Un-Comfort-Able

by Marcia Vallier

I feel heavy

Every part of me feels heavy

It’s difficult to hold my head up

My legs drag through life

It hurts

The sadness weighs me down

It is so uncomfortable

I am Un-Comfort-Able

Words cannot comfort me

I am Un-Comfort-Able

You left

My heart aches

My heart is heavy

I am Un-Comfort-Able

Time goes by

The pain intensifies

I don’t want to be here

I am Un-Comfort-Able

My heart aches to see you

To hug you

To hear you

I miss your smile

I miss your laughs

I miss your hugs

I miss your beautiful face

Every time I wake

My heart breaks

Another day to get through

Another day without you

Another day of being

Un-Comfort-Able

I wrote those words a while ago, but they still feel true.

The weight has shifted in small ways, but the ache remains — proof of a love that hasn’t gone anywhere.

And still, underneath everything I’ve learned and everything I try to hold,

there is this truth:

It hurts so deeply that Elijah is gone.

I miss him every single day.

I wish he were still here — more than words could ever say.

That will never stop being true.

His absence is the deepest wound of my life.

It’s the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

But even within that pain, something sacred keeps unfolding.

Because love doesn’t end.

It changes shape.

It becomes the air I breathe, the reason I write, the pulse behind everything I create.

Elijah’s love still moves through me —

in my words, in the beauty I notice, in my family, my grandchildren, my kids, and the compassion I try to give to others.

Maybe that’s what deep pain and deep love really mean.

They aren’t separate things.

They live together — side by side —

and I’m learning, slowly, how to carry them both.

Through it all, I’ve come to see that every story is unique — shaped by the moments that broke us and the moments that made us whole again.

This is my story. It’s one of pain and love intertwined.

Every experience — the beautiful and the unbearable — has shaped who I am today.

And even in the ache, I can feel that truth:

I am still becoming.

I read something recently that said, “You’re not broken. You’re disconnected.”

Those words sank deep.

Because I’ve spent so much time trying to understand the pieces of myself — the strong ones, the fragile ones, the ones that still ache, the ones that want to hide.

We all carry parts of ourselves that we’ve learned to deny — the anger, the sadness, the fear, the parts we think make us unlovable.

But the truth is, they all belong.

Healing isn’t about getting rid of them. It’s about bringing them back into connection, letting each part be seen, heard, and understood.

That’s the work — not to perfect ourselves, but to accept ourselves.

To know that we can hold contradictions: courage and fear, joy and sorrow, deep pain and deep love.

And maybe that’s what this journey really is — remembering that wholeness doesn’t mean never hurting again.

It means being human — fully, honestly, tenderly.

We all have a story — and this is part of mine.

A story of deep pain, deep love, and the courage to stay open to both.

We have a choice every day: to close off or to open, to harden or to soften, to disconnect or to reconnect.

When we choose connection — with ourselves, with others, with life — something begins to heal.

Because deep pain and deep love will always live side by side.

And maybe that’s what makes this life so breathtakingly beautiful.

Be gentle with yourself.

Keep your heart open.

You are unique — and that is your superpower.

Be you.