“How much is enough?”

“Just a little more.”

There were so many things we were supposed to do together. There were things I wanted to show her, experiences I wanted to share with her, places I’ve gone since that I wish I could still bring.

And yet, we got to do so much together. We drove across countries and states, we got to live by one another as adults. We shared so much, but it’s all over and that hurts.

I’ll be wanting a little more of her for the rest of my life.

It’s October, which brings torrents of sorrows to my family but also holds birthdays of some of my most beloved people: my Daddy, my niece Klaire, my husband Scott, my Auntie Beth, my sister Carrie… which just makes October an emotionally complex month. Much to celebrate, much to grieve — an unending dichotomy in our lives.

Mom was enrolled in a week-long intensive at Liberty University (my alma mater) taking place this October, and we talked about making it a girls’ trip. I haven’t been back to the university in years and Mom never attended a university in person. We were excited for the potential adventure… We never went on a girls’ trip with just the two of us.

A life cut short is so cruel. I’ve lost a lifetimes of memories that will never be made.

There’s the primary loss of my mother and the secondary loss of all the little things that died with her. Every book on grief will tell you that you will lose friends and people you thought would be in your life forever, but knowing that does not make it any less painful or shocking when it actually happens.

Grief can be incredibly isolating: in one sense, grief is as individual as the relationship, yet grief is public. My friends know, my coworkers know, strangers know. They know and they squirm.

Most close friends don’t know what to say… so they say nothing. Many fear saying something will make it “worse,” (which is nearly impossible)… so they say nothing. Many fear bringing it up will make me upset (don’t worry, grievers are thinking about it 100% of the time)… so they say nothing.

The hard work of grief support lies in entering into that awkward and sacred space and reaching through the silence. So much of grief support is simply companionship, simply bearing witness to a world torn apart. Entering this space requires bravery and delicacy, but it is fairly simple.

A fog follows me everywhere I go. It clouds my mind and wells in my eyes. You may not see it, but this invisible grief shouts in my mind at every moment of wakefulness and regularly infiltrates my dreams.

A little more, a little more.

I’ll want a little more forevermore.