Dear Me: A Letter To The Woman I Was Before Everything Changed
If I could sit with the version of me from before that phone call, before the hospital rooms, before I ever had to learn the language of loss…I’d hold her hand and tell her a few things. Not to scare her, but to love on her a little harder—the way she would eventually learn to love herself again, even after everything.
The Letter…
Dear Me,
You don’t know it yet, but life is about to shift in ways you never imagined. The laughter will sound different. The quiet will feel louder. And the weight on your chest—it will stay for a while.
You’ll cry in the car, in the shower, on your bedroom floor. You’ll feel guilty for laughing too soon and guilty for grieving too long. You’ll question your strength, your sanity, and your faith. But here’s what I need you to know:
You Will Survive.
You’ll rise with puffy eyes and still get the kids ready for school. You’ll sign paperwork you never thought you’d face. You’ll have the strength and the courage to give a piece of your husband to a stranger to help them see. You’ll sleep with one ear open and both eyes swollen.
But you’ll also rediscover joy.
You’ll learn to laugh without feeling like you’re betraying his memory.
You’ll create memories with your babies—and not feel bad about them.
You’ll fall back in love with life…slowly, imperfectly, and beautifully.
You won’t be the same woman—and that’s okay.
Because the woman you’re becoming? She’s resilient. She’s radiant.
And she carries love and grief in the same breath like a warrior.
You’ll still miss him. Always.
But you’ll also start to miss you less—the version of you that got buried under the weight of pain.
And one day, you’ll meet her again in the mirror…stronger, softer, and braver than you’ve ever been.
With so much love and pride.
Your future self, still healing….but still standing.
Writing this wasn’t easy, but it felt necessary.
Sometimes we forget how far we’ve come because we’re too focused on how far we have left to go. If you’re in your own chapter of grief or growth, consider writing a letter to the version of you that needed this kind of love. You may be surprised by what she needs to hear.
Have you ever written a letter to your past self? Share a line with me or save this to come back to when you need a reminder of how far you’ve come.
If this letter to myself felt like it could’ve been written to you too, you’re not alone.
Subscribe to my newsletter for weekly encouragement and space to reflect on how far you’ve come — even on the hardest days.
And if you’re ready for deeper healing and real connection, join The Brave Space — a private, supportive community for women walking through grief, growth, and everything in between.
—La 💙
Two Years Later: The Ache, The Joy, And Everything In Between
May 15, 2023….
A day thats etched into my bones.
Two years ago, my world changed forever.
I became a widow.
I became a solo parent.
I became a woman learning to carry heartbreak and hope in the same breath.
And somehow, by God’s grace….I’m still here. Still standing. Still healing.
Year One Was Survival
The first year was really a blur, now that I look back on it. I woke up most days wondering how I was still breathing, looking around trying to wake up from the dream I thought I was in. Every moment felt heavy and every room echoed his absence. I was trying my best to hold on and parent through the grief, loving my kids, while falling apart inside. I smiled when I had to, master of disguise, thats me. I cried in private, because I couldn’t let my kids know Mommy was broken, and I kept pushing forward because I had no other choice. No one will love my kids or care for my kids like I will…so my ONLY choice was to keep it moving, one foot in front of the other.
I didn’t feel strong.
I felt broken with no where to go
BUT, I kept showing up.
Year Two Was Transformation
This second year? It was different….Not easier. Not painless. But different.
I stopped trying to be who I was before. I started making space for who I was becoming. I knew that in order for me to begin my new life, fully, I had to stop trying to hide in the shadows and mask my grief.
I traveled, A LOT…mostly to run away from my thoughts, and to be honest, to run away from the children that looks like the man I lost. To run away from the people asking if I’m okay, but wouldn’t do anything if I say no. To run away from the ones telling me how strong I am, as if I ever wanted to be THIS strong.
I worked out.
I genuinely laughed again—and felt guilty for it.
I went on dates. I missed him while holding someone else’s hand.
I took solo trips with the kids and found pieces of myself in unfamiliar cities.
I wrote. I cried. I forgave myself—for surviving…because again, why me? Why did I get to live and watch our children grow and he doesn’t?
This year was a rollercoaster of feelings, pain, grief, happiness, but I didn’t just mourn.
I lived.
Grief Never Leaves, But Neither Does Love
People think grief fades. That time softens the sharpness. And in some ways it does. But grief never truly leaves.
It just shifts—from a storm that knocks you down to a quiet ache you learn to carry.
I still talk to him in the dark, in the light, especially in the shower.
I still feel him in songs, in our children’s laughter, in the way that I whisper “I’ve got them” into the night air.
His love didn’t die with him. It lives in me.
Introducing The Brave Space
For two years, I’ve carried so much silently. But I’ve also met other women like me—women grieving, growing, healing in their own way. And so I wanted a space just for us.
So today, on this anniversary of love and loss, I’m launching The Brave Space — A members-only section of this site for the women who feel everything I’ve just written.
It’s where I’ll share:
Exclusive healing downloads
Monthly letters + journal prompts
Affirmations, reflections, and raw encouragement
A sisterhood that sees you—even in your lowest moments
Because grief can feel lonely. But it doesn’t have to be.
Two years later, I still cry.
But I also laugh. I dream. I live.
This post is for him.
But it’s also for me—and for you.
If you’re walking this road, I see you. I’m not here to tell you it gets easier. I’m here to remind you that you get stronger.
And thats brave as hell.
— La 💙
The Space Between Then And Now: Living In The In-Between
There’s a strange stillness in the days between Mother’s Day and the anniversary of his passing. It’s like my body knows before my mind does. I wake up feeling off—tender, tired, slightly depressed, and a bit disconnected from the world. It’s the space between grief and grace, memory and movement. It’s not quite May 15th, but it’s close enough to feel the cold in my bones.
These in-between days are harder that I ever expected.
Everyone else moves on—the baloons from Mother’s Day deflate, my inbox is back to normal, and thw rold just spins, just as it always have. But for me, everything feels like its holding its breath.
Grief doesn’t just show up on anniversaries.
It lingers. It whispers. It walks beside me quietly in the background—especially now.
In this space, i’m reminded of who I used to be.
The woman who planned dates, trips, cooked dinner with my partner, and had someone to share life’s load. I’m reminded of who i’ve become—the woman who does it all now. Even when its hard. Even when she’s tired.
But i’m also reminded of the strength I didn’t know I had. How I’ve rebuilt routines, reimagined joy, and kept going for my babies—and for myself.
The space between then and now is full of questions I’ll never get answered, love that still doesn’t know where to go, and moments of grace I never expected to find.
In These Days, I’ve Learned To:
Rest without guilt
Say no to what drains me
Let tears fall without needing a reason
Celebrate small wins—even if it’s just getting out of bed
If you’re also living in your own “in-between,” I see you. This space may feel quiet, but it’s not empty. It’s full of growth, healing and becoming. And even here—especially here—you’re doing better than you think.
—La 💙
Mother’s Day In The Shadow Of Grief: Learning To Celebrate While Healing.
Mother’s Day was so different before death came knocking at our door. It was the kids serving me breakfast in bed while their dad was at the door smiling, handmade cards, and sneaky kisses between the chaos of motherhood. But now, it falls in a season that feels both sacred and heavy — only a few days before the anniversary of the hardest goodbye I’ve ever had to say. This one day, once full of joy and laughter, now holds space for both love and loss. What I’ve learned is….that’s okay, too.
I never imagined I’d mother through so much pain and grief.
I never imagined I’d carry the weight of my own heartbreak while still showing up and being present for my babies with soft hands and sometimes, a loud and strong voice.
But here I am—doing it, one step and one breath at a time.
This Mother’s Day doesn’t come with ease. It comes with memories I didn’t ask for, silence where laughter used to be, and the ache of knowing he won’t be here to remind the kids to make me a card or hide the flowers he had gotten for me in the car.
It comes with the countdown to May 15th, the day everything changed.
But it also comes with moments of unexpected beauty.
My toddler’s arms wrapped tightly around my neck while carrying his dad’s smile, my bigger babies telling me they got me. The way grief has softened them too is honestly scary and crazy all at the same time, it made them more compassionate and more aware. Sadly, it made them grow up much quicker than I wish.
I’ve learned to receive what’s here…To let go of the pressure for a “perfect” day and embrace the truth of what this day means now.
It means I’m still here.
It means I’m still mothering, even when my heart feels broken.
It means I’m allowed to cry and laugh, to remember him and celebrate me.
On Mother’s Day, I Honor:
The Mother I was before loss—full of dreams and wide-eyed joy
The mother I became in the aftermath—exhausted, grieving, but still standing
And the mother I am now—healing, growing, and loving fiercely, in his honor and my own
If this day feels hard for you too—know you’re not alone. You are seen. You are held. And you are doing beautifully, even in the mess.
To all the widowed moms, grieving moms, moms who are doing it alone—this day is for you, too. Your motherhood is not defined by perfection, but by presence. And the fact that you keep showing up…is more than enough.
—La 💙
Healing Isn’t Linear — Here’s How I Found My Way Back.
Before I started the healing journey I didn’t know I needed, I honestly thought it would come in stages. In order, trackable, hell, even on a schedule.
But grief, like God, laughed at my expectations. Some days I was unstoppable. Other days I couldn’t get out of bed. Some days I made breakfast, went to Crossfit, killed my to-do-list — and by nightfall, I was in the shower, crying my eyes out…because why? me?
If you’re here wondering why you don’t feel “better” yet, let me tell you: Healing doesn’t look like a straight line. It looks more so like a heartbeat. Messy, up and down, alive.
The Truth About Healing
Grief doesn’t ask permission. It shows up in Target aisles, at red lights, in your child’s laugh that sounds just like him. It’s not something you move on from. You move with it — every. single. day.
There were moments I felt like I was doing everything “right” — therapy, journaling, travel, workouts, hell, I even made music…and yet the pain still came in waves. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t healing though. It just means healing isn’t linear. It loops, it spirals, it pauses, it returns….and it still counts.
How I Found My Way Back (Again and Again)
Grace Over Grind: I stopped trying to win at grieving. I thought taking the time to sit and grieve would make me weak. How can I raise three little kids and grieve at the same time? I finally allowed myself to rest, to fall apart. to not be okay — without shame.
Tiny Joys: I didn’t chase big breakthroughs. I held on to the little moments: toddler giggles, my bigger kids laughing, sipping my coffee in peace, and solo backyard readings.
Movement: Boxing gave me something to hit and crossfit gave me an outlet when I didn’t have words. Movement became medicine.
Sisterhood: I started connecting with women like me — widowed, weary, rebuilding — and it changed everything. I wasnt alone anymore.
Writing: Putting my feelings into words gave my grief somewhere to go.
A Word For You, Sis
If today feels heavy, if the tears are back out of nowhere, if you’re wondering why it still hurts — you’re not broken. You’re healing. You are doing sacred, invisible work every day you get up and try again. Even if all you did was survive today, you’ve already won.
— La 💙
I Created The Brave Space Because…
I created The Brave Space because I know what it feels like to be the strong one…and still feel broken inside.
Because grief doesn’t come with a manual.
Because healing is not linear, but sisterhood makes the journey feel less lonely.
I created it for women like me—moms, widows, wives, daughters—who’ve lost something or someone they never imagined living without, and are trying to figure out how to live again…for real this time.
The Brave Space is a soft place to land when the world moves on and you’re still catching your breath.
It’s a journal for your truth.
A whisper of encouragement when you forget your power.
A reminder that healing doesn’t mean forgetting—it means making room for joy and sorrow, sometimes in the same breath.
This isn’t about pretending to be okay.
It’s about learning how to keep going—messy, sacred, and brave.
Inside The Brave Space, You’ll Find:
Gentle grief journaling prompts each month
Monthly affirmation cards to carry you through the hard days
“Letters from La”—personal notes from me to you
And a community of women who get it, who see you, who walk with you