Sleeping has been really hard for me lately. I haven’t been able to fall asleep easily, and when I do, I don’t wake up anywhere close to my normal time. I took some time off from work, so I’m trying not to shame myself for that right now, but there’s still a part of me that feels on edge about it. Life keeps moving. Eventually I’ll have to step back into routine, and I know that matters.
This morning I woke up around noon (which has been pretty typical this week) and instead of panic or guilt, something unexpected showed up.
Gratitude.
Gratitude that my fiancé hasn’t judged me for sleeping so late.
Gratitude that he made me pancakes and Nutella.
Gratitude that my little dog was biting my nose to wake me up.
Gratitude that I had another day to try again.
And gratitude for a phone call from my grandpa the night before.
He had said, “Exercise, exercise, exercise- that’s what we’re going to start doing. I mean it. So tomorrow you better get up and move or I’m dragging you to the gym. Four days a week, you’re going to work out in some way.”
At the time I remember thinking, Oh jeez- another obligation. I can barely tie my shoe right now. I don’t want to be thinking about the gym.
What I didn’t realize was that something else was happening underneath that reaction.
Hope was being planted.
After breakfast, I opened Instagram and saw a post from one of my friends. It wasn’t anything dramatic, just a normal January update about life and the new year- but buried in the caption were the words:
“You can do hard things.”
And something in me stopped.
Not because it was a pretty quote.
But because it was hers.
That was my mom’s phrase.
“We can do hard things.”
She used to say it when things felt impossible. When I was overwhelmed. When life felt heavier than I knew how to carry. It was her way of reminding me that strength didn’t mean not hurting- it meant continuing anyway.
This friend had never heard my mom say it. And yet there it was, appearing in my feed on a morning when I was barely convincing myself to get out of bed.
It felt like one of those quiet moments where grief and memory and timing all collide; where something ordinary suddenly feels loaded with meaning.
I smiled.
And I cried.
The Memory Inside the Words
The gratitude I felt toward this friend wasn’t just about the phrase.
It was about what it brought back.
Before cancer changed everything, my mom and I had always planned on building something together. We wanted to work side by side as therapists: creating a business rooted in mental health awareness, connection, and meaningful support. We were waiting until I finished school and my associate hours to make it official.
Cancer interrupted that timeline.
But while she was still in chemo and still felt okay, this same friend gave us a space to do something beautiful. She invited my mom and me to speak together to a group of incredible beauty professionals. We got to lead an educational seminar side by side.
It was our first.
And it became our last.
I got to watch my mom shine as a therapist one more time- with me right beside her.
So seeing those words wasn’t just a quote on a screen.
It was a doorway back to her. To us.
Moving Anyway
Something about that moment made me get dressed. I thought, Okay- instead of Grandpa dragging me to the gym, I’ll just walk to his house.
It’s about three miles away.
I haven’t worked out in about three years.
That “simple” walk completely wrecked me. I feel like I got hit by a truck and I’m still recovering, even though that sounds dramatic.
But the whole time I was walking, I kept thinking about that post.
About gratitude.
About quiet reminders.
About how my mom still shows up; through other people, through words, through moments that gently push me forward.
She’s still here.
Not loudly.
Not in the way I wish.
But softly, woven into the world around me.
And that’s enough to keep me moving.
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