This post begins a new series I’m calling Simple Rhythms — small, sustainable habits that have helped me move from survival mode into steadier, more peaceful living. None of them are dramatic. But together, they’ve changed the way I experience my days.
Things That Help Me Sleep Better
Sleep hasn’t always come easily for me.
There were seasons after Jon passed when I would fall asleep quickly, only to wake at midnight with my mind racing. The house would be quiet, but my thoughts were loud. Fear often feels louder at night.
Over time — slowly and imperfectly — I’ve learned that good sleep doesn’t start at bedtime. It starts much earlier in the day.
Here are a few simple rhythms that have helped me sleep more deeply.
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Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. And if you’re grieving, it can feel like a slap in the face. The cards. The chocolate. The flowers. Romantic movies. Couples celebrating each other. Everywhere you look, you are reminded of love, and the person you no longer have beside you. He’s not there to take you to dinner or give you flowers. She’s not handing you a card with a silly inside joke, just for you.
It’s hard to be reminded of what we’ve lost.
It’s painful to no longer receive the love that once felt so steady and secure.
You still love them deeply, but that love is no longer expressed in the same way.
This was so hard for me. I deeply loved Jon, and I missed him terribly. He was so good at telling me what he loved and valued about me on a regular basis, not just Valentine’s Day. He’d write me notes or call me from work and speak words of affirmation that strengthened my heart. Then suddenly, those words were gone.
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This year began very differently than I expected.
On January 1st, my daughter threw me a surprise 50th birthday party. It was so much fun, full of laughter, and such a gift. I’ve been counting down the days to turning 50, genuinely excited to celebrate this milestone.
Just two and a half weeks later, I found myself in the ER with excruciating back pain.
Let’s rewind a bit.
I’ve dealt with lower back issues on and off for years. When they flare up, I usually know what to do—ice, essential oils, a few chiropractic visits—and before long, I’m back to normal. But sometime in May, something changed.
At first, it was just an annoyance. A little discomfort that I assumed would resolve itself like it always had. I continued icing and seeing my chiropractor, but I didn’t slow down much else. Instead of improving, it steadily worsened.
Part 3: Finding Healing When You Finally Let Yourself Grieve
When I finally allowed myself to face my grief, it was both heartbreaking and healing. For years, I had held everything together—staying strong for my children, showing up for responsibilities, convincing myself that moving forward meant not looking back. But eventually, I reached a point where I could no longer hold it all in.
When the floodgates opened, they opened wide.
There were tears—many of them. There were counseling sessions, long walks, quiet mornings, and late nights spent praying through questions I didn’t have answers to. It wasn’t tidy or quick, and it certainly wasn’t easy. But for the first time in a long time, I could breathe.
I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
In that season, I began to understand something important: grieving doesn’t mean you’ve failed to move forward. It means you’re allowing God to heal what’s been wounded. I started to see how tightly I had been holding on—to control, to expectations, to what I thought my life should look like. And slowly, God invited me to loosen my grip.
Part 2: When Grief Shows Up in Unexpected Ways
When Jon died, I truly believed I was handling things well. I stayed busy—teaching piano, homeschooling the kids, staying involved at church. I cried occasionally, but I didn’t allow myself to really feel. I told myself I was being strong, doing what needed to be done, moving forward the way I thought I was supposed to.
At the time, it felt like survival.
What I didn’t realize was that grief doesn’t stay buried forever. When it isn’t given space in our hearts, it often finds expression through our bodies.
For me, it began as anxiety. Fear crept into places it had never been before. A simple sneeze from one of my children could send my heart racing. A smoke detector chirping in the middle of the night left me wide awake and panicked. Late-night phone calls filled me with dread, my mind immediately jumping to the worst possible outcome.
Depression followed close behind. I withdrew—not because I wanted to, but because I was exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically. My body felt like it was constantly on high alert, stuck in fight-or-flight mode, and I didn’t know how to turn it off.
