I wasn't attempting to write something polished. I sat down simply because my heart feels heavy, and I don’t have anywhere else to put it.

A week ago, I flew to Jamaica to bury loved ones: two funerals, two goodbyes, and an already heavy heart. But grief didn’t come alone; with it, it brought memory, it brought truth, and it brought me back to places my body never forgot.

The Places That Remember

Just days apart, I visited and sat in two childhood homes, homes that hold some of the most painful memories a person can carry in their body.

I walked through rooms where silence still screams, rooms that looked unusually dark and eerie. I experienced the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty; it feels loud, it felt heavy and unfinished.

I stood in places where things happened that were never supposed to. Spaces where innocence was interrupted, dare I say, stolen. Spaces where truth was buried before it ever had language. And even though I’ve done the work, even though I’ve spoken, even though I’ve grown…

My body remembered what my mind thought it had made peace with.

I watched as family members, relatives, and family friends moved freely through these spaces, with no tension, as they entered certain rooms. And this caused my chest to tighten, my breath to shorten, and my heart to race.

In real time, I had to remind myself I was okay.

And quietly, the words of Isaiah 43:2 settled over me,

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.”

I was passing through, and He was with me, even there.

Showing Up Anyway

On this trip, I sat with and even hugged family members who still haven’t chosen me. Relatives who still wrestle with the truth I dared to tell, and who still carry discomfort with my voice.

And I showed up anyway, not because it was easy, or because it didn’t affect me, but because healing doesn’t always look like distance.
Sometimes healing looks like presence, with boundaries, and awareness.

I postponed my flight, extended my stay, and paid the cost.
Because someone I love needed me, I gave a loved one something her therapist couldn’t: me.
I gave my presence, my story, my willingness to sit in that room and tell the truth out loud.
And that moment?
It mattered even if it cost me.

When Grief Doesn’t Give You Time to Breathe

And then I came home, only for grief to follow me through Facebook, of all places. One post, my scrolling and moment that changed everything.

A dear friend, someone who showed up for me during one of the hardest seasons of my life, was gone, just like that. A motorcycle, a Mercedes, a Sunday, and now her children are without their mother.

And I’m sitting with that weight too. Lately, I’ve been experiencing death’s finality in a way that feels relentless. Life keeps reminding me how fragile everything is, and there is no time like the present moment.

And Then - Real Life Was Waiting

I came home, and a brother’s struggle met me at the door.
There was no transition, no pause, no space in between to process.
Just life, still happening. And there I was, or rather, here I am.
My full soul is carrying an extraordinary load of grief, trauma, love, and purpose, all at the same time. And, here I bleed on paper. Knowing I must get it all out before it gets me. So, I write.

The Tears That Won’t Come

And the tears? They won’t come.
Not because I don’t feel, but because sometimes the pain is so layered, so deep, so intertwined, that the body doesn’t know where to begin.
So it goes quiet, and that quiet? That stillness? That is the cry.
And maybe that’s what Paul meant in Romans 8:26 - when he says,

“The Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.”

When we don’t have language for the pain, when the tears won’t even form, the Spirit carries what we can’t articulate, what we cannot express, and that has to be enough for today.

The Question I Wasn’t Ready For

There’s something else I need to name.
A loved one's psychiatrist stirred something in me.
He asked me questions about relationships, about letting people in and about trust. He asked real questions,
the kind that don’t have quick answers, that sit with you long after the conversation ends. And I realized, that’s not a small thing to carry, especially in the middle of everything else. That question has been quietly living in me, and now it’s asking to be seen. I don’t have to answer it today. But I can no longer pretend it isn’t there.

What I’m Learning in This Moment

I used to think healing looked like arriving.
Like one day I would wake up and say,
“I’m done, I’m healed. That part of my life no longer touches me.”
But that’s not the truth -

Healing is layered. Healing is complex.

And sometimes you don’t meet the next layer until life brings you back to the place where it all began. This moment doesn’t mean I’m broken.
It doesn’t mean I’ve gone backwards, It signifies there is something deeper asking for my attention.

A Word That Met Me Where I Am

Someone said something to me recently that I haven’t been able to shake:
“You are not just a survivor. You are a covenant carrier. God keeps sending you into the rooms that matter, not to break you, but because you carry something those rooms need.”

And I’m wrestling with that, because it didn’t feel like strength in the moment. It felt like a weight, especially after a door opened in Jamaica that I wasn’t expecting, a meeting that quietly placed something significant in my hands, something I’m still processing the weight of.
But maybe both can be true at the same time. Maybe purpose doesn’t always feel powerful. Maybe sometimes it feels heavy - Costly.

What I know for sure is, it costs.

And yet, Psalm 34:18 reminds me:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

God is close, not distant, He’s not watching from afar, He is Close.
Even when purpose feels like a burden, He is near.

Today, This Is Enough

So today… I’m not showing up as the expert.
I’m not showing up with answers,
I’m not showing up, proper, perfect, or polished.
I’m showing up as a woman who is still healing, still processing, still carrying, and still choosing not to quit. And maybe that’s the message.
Not that I’ve arrived, but that I’m still here.
Still doing the work, for myself, and for others.
Still saying yes, even when it costs me.

So, If You’re Here Too

Wanting to cry, but you can’t. If you're wanting to rest… but your mind won’t slow down. Desiring to show up, but not fully knowing how.

And if you’re honest, there’s a part of you that feels alone.

If you’ve ever found yourself in a moment where everything feels like too much, where grief, memory, responsibility, and unanswered questions collide - I want you to know this:

You’re not falling apart.

You’re not behind.

You’re not failing at healing.

You’re human.

And sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is let yourself feel what you feel, without rushing to fix it.

Truth that holds me together

Today, I don’t have to post perfectly, write the perfect email, or have it all figured out.
Today…
I just have to let myself hurt.
Because right now,
that is the work, and that is okay.

From my heart to yours,

Larissa.