Today, all I might be able to do… is just get out of bed.
And if I’m being really honest, even that feels like a lot.
I didn’t turn the camera on this morning because I wanted to. I turned it on because I felt called to. Because there is something inside of me that knows I’m supposed to share this part too. The scary part – the real, raw, uncomfortable part of grief that most of us would rather keep tucked away.
The part that doesn’t look strong.
The part that doesn’t tie up in a neat bow.
The part that aches. Oh friend the ache!
Grief is so strange, my friends. People always say it comes and goes, like waves. And maybe that’s true for some. But for me, it feels different.
It feels constant.
It feels like an ache that lives in your bones.
It’s like being homesick… for a home you can never go back to again.
Tomorrow marks two years since I lost my husband, Quintin. Two years. And this entire week has felt heavy in a way I can’t fully explain. Like my body remembers before my mind even has the chance to catch up.
And now, layered on top of that… I’m watching my mom slowly slip away.
There’s something about grief stacking on top of grief that takes the wind out of you. It’s not just one loss. It’s the weight of all of it, all at once.
And yes, I know where she’s going. I know she loves Jesus. I know she will be with Him. I know the truth.
But can I just say something that maybe you’ve felt too?
Knowing that… doesn’t make it easier here on earth.
We still feel it all.
The questions.
The ache.
The exhaustion.
The quiet moments that feel too loud.
From the outside looking in, I think people assume I’ve handled it well. I hear it all the time—“You’re so strong.”
And I always want to gently say… it’s not me.
It’s a supernatural strength.
Because if it were up to me, I would have crumbled a long time ago.
But I’ve also gotten really good at something I don’t talk about enough.
I’ve gotten really good at pushing people away.
I’ve gotten really good at compartmentalizing everything just to survive.
Putting one piece of grief in a box.
Another responsibility in a different one.
Another emotion somewhere else.
Just so I can function.
And then this morning… I woke up to a text from a friend.
Just a simple message:
“I’m so sorry. You’ve endured so much loss. You were on my mind.”
And something about that message… it broke through.
Because grief can feel so isolating. Like you’re carrying something no one else can see or understand. And when someone pauses long enough to say, “I see you… I’m thinking of you…”—it reminds you that you’re not as alone as grief tries to convince you that you are.
That ache you woke up with… someone else felt it too, even if just for a moment.
Grief is not just tears.
I think we get that wrong sometimes.
We picture crying as the main expression of grief. But what happens when the tears stop?
My mom said something to me recently that I haven’t been able to shake. She said, “This is crazy… I don’t even have any more tears to cry.”
And if you knew her, you’d know how significant that is. She has always been the kind of person who feels deeply. Joyful tears, sorrowful tears, empathy for others—she’s always expressed it through tears.
So for her to say she has none left…
That stopped me.
Because I realized something in that moment.
Grief doesn’t stop when the tears stop.
Sometimes your body is still crying… even when your eyes aren’t.
It’s the heaviness in your chest.
The exhaustion in your bones.
The ache that doesn’t have words.
It’s a full-body experience.
And I told her, “Mom… you are crying. Just not in the way you’re used to.”
And maybe that’s you too.
Maybe you’ve wondered why you don’t cry as much anymore. Maybe you’ve wondered if something is wrong with you.
There’s not.
Grief just changes shape.
And in the middle of all of this, I keep coming back to one simple truth:
It’s okay to not be okay.
I know I get on here a lot and try to offer encouragement. I try to point you to something hopeful, something uplifting.
But today… this is it.
This is the encouragement:
Life will have trials.
That’s not a maybe. That’s a promise.
Scripture tells us that.
And following Jesus doesn’t make us immune to pain—it just means we don’t walk through it alone.
Jesus Himself faced suffering He didn’t want.
He literally prayed, “Father, take this cup from me… but Your will be done.”
He understands.
And somehow… that brings me comfort.
Not because it takes the pain away, but because it means I’m not alone in it.
There’s this hat hanging in my garage—one Quintin wore. And on it is a cross with the words, “It is well with my soul.”
And every time I see it… I pause.
Because I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it’s there.
I think God knew I would need that reminder.
That even when everything in me feels anything but “well”… my soul can still be held.
That Quintin is okay.
That my mom will be okay.
That one day… I will be okay too.
There’s a song I keep playing on repeat lately—“You’re Gonna Be Okay” by Lauren Daigle.
And there’s a line that gets me every time:
At the end of our breath is the beginning of new life.
That’s the tension of grief, isn’t it?
The ending here…
is the beginning somewhere else.
And while that truth doesn’t erase the ache, it gives it somewhere to rest.
This world—it’s not the end.
It’s just a moment.
A vapor.
And one day, we will be reunited in what the old hym calls the “sweet by and by.”
But until then… we live here.
We feel here.
We grieve here.
And maybe—just maybe—we learn to carry both things at once:
The ache…
and the hope.
So today, if all you can do is get out of bed…
That’s enough.
If all you can do is take one step, whisper one prayer, or simply breathe through the weight of it…
That’s enough.
And in the middle of it all, I’m holding onto this:
That even with the ache in my bones… there is a supernatural joy that can sustain me.
Not because life is easy.
But because God is still good.
And somehow… even here…
He is still carrying us. 🤍
And if you’re in a season like this—where the thoughts feel heavy and the ache is hard to put into words—I want to gently encourage you to write it out.
Not perfectly, not polished… just honestly. Some of the most healing moments I’ve had have come from pouring my heart onto paper and bringing it before the Lord.
If you need a place to start, I created my Rooted in Him Prayer Journal as a safe space to process grief, cling to truth, and stay anchored in Him even on the hardest days. I’ll link it here for you—just know you’re not alone in this, and you don’t have to carry it all in your head. 🤍
Every morning, I wake up and share a bit of my heart on my socials. If you are not following me on instagram, you can do so HERE and in this season specifically I am sharing my grief journey. Praying that I can share hope in the midst of my pain and how you too can find purpose in the midst of your valley by When All I Can Do Is Get Out of Bed: Grief, Faith, and the Ache That Doesn’t Leave. For those who would like to take a listen on the you can do so below.
So thankful for your encouragement each day ❤️🩹 your support means the world to me.
Much encouragement and love- Lori💗✝️
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Lori, I feel as if I have known you for a long while, like a neighbor. I probably understand more than most. In 2018 my dad’s brother died, in the day of the funeral my dad died. Three days later my step dad died. Horrible amount of grief. I thought I was getting over it, when in 2019 my oldest daughter was murdered on Thanksgiving Day. She left behind 3 kids under 10. I now have adopted all 3. I would like to say you are doing an amazing job with your children and your business. You feel however you need to feel. It’s part of grieving that you can’t control. Unless you’ve been through it or something similar you’ll never really understand how grief works. Keep doing what you’re doing and don’t listen to the naysayers. Everyone has an opinion and it doesn’t mean your approach is wrong. I really enjoy how raw and unedited you are. It helps me deal with my emotions and grief. In Gods love from Columbia, MO
I don’t even have the right words for the weight of what you’ve carried… but I want you to know I see you, and I am so deeply sorry. The loss of your dad, your stepdad, your uncle all at once… and then losing your daughter in such a heartbreaking way. That is more than anyone should ever have to walk through.
And the way you stepped in and are raising your grandbabies… that is such a powerful picture of love. Those kids are so blessed to have you. I can only imagine the strength it has taken to keep going while carrying that kind of grief.
Thank you for your kindness toward me and for the encouragement. It means more than you know, especially coming from someone who truly understands that grief isn’t something you “get over.” You learn to live with it, to carry it, and somehow still show up each day.
What you said is so true… people who haven’t walked through something like this don’t always understand. And that’s okay. But hearing from people like you, who have lived it, reminds me that being real and honest matters.
I’m really grateful you’re here, and that something I’ve shared has helped you even a little in your own journey. I’m sending so much love your way from just a little down the road, and I’ll be praying for you and those sweet kids you’re raising. 💛
I sent a card with some additional prayer cards inside to Evelyn’s House on Friday, April 3rd, from Georgia. I am so sorry for the loss of your momma and your Q.
Mary Ann… you are so sweet! Those prayer cards helped carry us through our most difficult times. Thank you for your kindness.
I get up everyday even when I don’t want to, I put one foot in front of the other it’s all I can do. it’s been 3 years since my husband passed away this past week would have been our 25th anniversary
I’m so sorry. Three years… and an anniversary on top of that carries such a heavy weight. Those dates have a way of bringing everything right back to the surface.
The way you said “I get up every day even when I don’t want to” … that is strength, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Sometimes in grief, just putting one foot in front of the other is everything. That’s not small, that’s incredibly brave.
Twenty five years is a beautiful love. That doesn’t just go away. Of course you feel it deeply, especially this week. Anniversaries remind us not only of what we lost, but of how much we had.
I’m really proud of you for continuing to show up, even on the days it feels impossible. That matters more than you know.
I’m holding space for you this week and remembering your love story with you. 💛
I am so grateful to have you in my life to help me walk this path. It is a very difficult path to travel, and God puts the people we need in our life when we need them.
That means more to me than you know. Truly. 💛
You’re right… this is such a hard path to walk, and none of us would have chosen it. But I do believe God places people in our lives to help carry the weight when it feels too heavy to hold on our own. I’m so grateful we found each other in this space.
Thank you for letting me be a small part of your journey. You’re not walking this alone, even on the days it feels like it. I’m right here with you. 💛
I have a friend in Texas that just had a book published called life after death. It’s her Journey after she lost to husbands. She’s the pastor of a church called center point church. Her book is on Amazon. You have to look up Connie Tousha life after death.
Thank you so much for sharing that with me. My heart goes out to your friend… walking through the loss of one husband is unimaginable, let alone two. I can’t even begin to fathom that kind of grief.
I love hearing about stories like hers though, because they remind us that even in the deepest pain, God is still writing something through it. I’ll definitely look her book up. Thank you for thinking of me and passing that along. 💛
I would like to say you are not alone I lost my sweet angel in nov 04 . She left this earth 50 years old Im 51 Ive suffered without my best friend everyday is an ach achievements kids grandkids all the things so much to share with her . I miss my mom I cry everytime I say that .The ache you feel it truly just remains life keeps going the earth keeps spinning and it seems so not fair .But God douse have us 🙏 precious queen chin up keep shinning and know you are doing all you can to be you do all the things she tought you live love laugh like there is no tomorrow 💖 my mom ustu say our lives our barrowed we must do everything we can with this borrowed time ❤️ Im sure this is something you might not want to hear but Ive fallowd you so long ❤️ I can relate you give me incentive to keep pushing I await our coffee mornings ❤️ I pray 🙏 For you strength 💪 and courage at this time of sorrow and grief 😔 God bless you my friend forever keep shinning queen youre beautiful amazing and wonderful 💖 I send tight hugs and love ❤️ have a blessed day chin up pumpkin youre not alone 💖 I also had to move in our childhood home with all her belongings my father was loosing it .oh so much to share friend Ill save for another day love ya 💗
Oh my heart… thank you for sharing this with me. I am so deeply sorry for the loss of your sweet mom. Losing her at 50, and you being so close in age… that is such a unique and painful kind of grief. The way you described missing her in all the moments… the achievements, the kids, the grandkids… that part really hits. Those are the spaces where their absence feels the loudest.
You’re so right… the ache doesn’t just go away. Life keeps moving and somehow we’re expected to move with it, even when part of our heart feels like it’s been left behind. It can feel so unfair.
But I love the way you spoke about your mom and the things she taught you… to live, love, and make the most of this borrowed time. That is such a beautiful way to carry her with you. She may not be here physically, but she is still living through you in the way you love and show up in this world.
Thank you for your encouragement and your prayers… they truly mean so much to me. And please know the same right back to you. I’m praying for strength and peace over your heart too.
And those coffee mornings… I’m holding onto that. ☕💛 You’re not alone in this either. I’m right here with you. Sending you the biggest hug. 💖
🤍💗
Sending love and sympathy from Michigan to you and your family Lori.
Sweet of you to take the time to encourage me. Thank you <3