You're Still Here, and So Am I
A turning point in our grief series—and a new way to keep walking together
Hi love,
This post was supposed to be the end.
When I first started this grief series, I planned to write specifically about grief for eight weeks, just enough time, I thought, to help people feel a little more seen in their sorrow. I wanted to offer a space for witnessing. For validation. For saying the quiet things out loud.
But then something happened.
You wrote back.
You shared your stories.
You told me how the fog still lingers, how the anniversaries keep knocking the wind out of you, how your body aches in ways no one else can see.
You told me you weren’t done.
And I realized, I’m not either.
So this isn’t a conclusion. It’s a turning point.
This grief series will continue because grief continues. Not forever in the same shape, but in the quiet echo of love that hasn’t gone anywhere.
You Were Never Meant to Do This Alone
If no one has said it lately, you’ve carried so much.
You’ve survived the days that felt impossible.
You’ve grieved in public, in silence, in parking lots, and in places where no one noticed.
You’ve held your breath through anniversaries and ordinary Tuesdays.
And still, you are here.
Not “healed.” Not the same.
But here. And that is a sacred thing.
Grief doesn’t end. But it shifts.
It weaves itself into your breath, your bones, your nervous system.
Some days you’ll feel soft. Other days, brittle.
Some mornings might bring tears before coffee.
Others might feel… okay.
All of it belongs.
What We’re Creating Together
Over the past eight weeks, we’ve been building something quietly, consistently, in the midst of deep pain and ordinary days.
We’ve explored:
The messy, nonlinear truth of grief
The ache of invisible or unspoken loss
The days that ambush you with memory
The fear of forgetting
The guilt of feeling good again
The truth that grief lives in the body
And now, this moment, a soft threshold.
Not an ending. Not a conclusion.
But a deepening.
There’s no certificate for doing this work.
No checklist to tell you you’re doing it “right.”
But there is this:
A heart still beating.
A grief still honored.
A life continuing, breath by breath.
A circle growing, one witness at a time.
That is sacred.
And it’s just the beginning.
Why Still Here Was Born
When I began writing this series, I was (and still am) also walking with my own grief, especially the layered losses of both of my parents. My grief didn’t move in a straight line. It showed up in the most unexpected places: in grocery stores, in the shape of a candle flame, in the silence after a song.
And every time I wrote, I was writing not just for others, but for the version of me who needed these words, too.
As the responses started coming in, I knew this work had to go deeper.
Deeper than eight weeks.
Deeper than weekly emails.
Deeper into the sacred mess and the quiet truths that often go unspoken.
That’s how Still Here: A Digital Grief Companion came to life.
It’s a 6-week journey for those who want to keep walking, not toward “healing” as a destination, but toward a relationship with what remains.
You’ll move through rituals, storywork, somatic practices, and weekly reflections that meet you wherever you are. This isn’t about closure. It’s about continuity. It’s about staying present with your grief, not fixing it, but befriending it.
If you’d like to join me, you can access Still Here: A Digital Companion now for $66 through the end of August (regularly $77). There’s no rush. No pressure.
Whether or not you choose to join Still Here, I’ll still be here. Writing about grief, speaking the hard things, and holding space for your sorrow. That won’t change.
A Small Ritual to Mark the Turning
You don’t need much. Just a little quiet.
Light a candle.
Sit somewhere that feels safe.
Write a letter, not to the person you lost, but to the part of yourself who has carried the grief.
Say what you need to say.
Thank them. Acknowledge them. Tell them you’re still with them.
When you're finished, fold the letter and place it somewhere sacred: an altar, a drawer, your pillow.
Let it be a reminder:
You don’t have to leave this part of you behind in order to keep living.
You can carry both memory and momentum.
Love and loss. Absence and continuation.
You Don’t Have to Know What Comes Next
If you feel like you’re standing in the aftermath of something immense, unsure of where to go, good. That means you’re paying attention.
You don’t have to turn your pain into purpose.
You don’t need to find the “lesson” in your loss.
You don’t have to grow from this.
You only need to keep breathing.
To keep remembering what matters.
To keep telling the truth of your experience.
And when the world gets loud with “shoulds” and timelines, I hope you come back to your own rhythm.
You’re not behind. You’re not broken.
You’re grieving.
And you’re doing it with more grace than you know.
You’re still here.
And I’m still walking beside you.
Love today,
Heather 🌸
Journal Prompt
Write a letter to your grief—not to fix it, but to witness it.
What has it taught you? What has it taken? What has it left behind?
What would it feel like to walk beside it instead of against it?
Did you know you can change your subscription settings? If you love my content, yet want to opt out of the Grief Series, you have the ability to do that. Log in to Substack and visit your settings. Under Subscriptions, select Bone & Bloom. You can choose your notifications there.
Learn more about Still Here: A Digital Grief Companion
