The Weight of Remembering

I think the hardest kind of grief is the kind that starts before the goodbye ever really happens. When someone you love is still here—but different—and you feel the weight of memories pressing in, uninvited but constant. It hits you on quiet days, in small moments, in places that used to feel simple. And suddenly, nothing feels simple at all.

My grandma Carol raised me for the first few years of my life. And not just in the sense of providing meals or putting me to bed. She shaped me—she showed me how to live creatively, how to find value in things beyond what they cost, how to live with wonder. We used to go thrifting all the time. She’d help me pick out things I liked and explain why it was more about what something meant to you than the price on the tag. That’s something I still carry with me in how I shop, how I decorate, even how I love.

She never tried to tame my imagination. I could express myself however I wanted, and she was always cheering me on. She taught me how to use a sewing machine and made the tiniest clothes for my Barbie dolls and baby dolls—every stitch holding more love than I probably realized at the time. She gave me the freedom to be a kid who dreamed big, dressed weird, and believed anything was possible.

Some of my clearest memories with her are small ones: sitting on the living room floor eating McDonald’s pancakes while watching cartoons—Power Rangers, Yo Gabba Gabba, Strawberry Shortcake, SpongeBob. She always knew what made me happy and somehow always made it happen. She’d take me to the park across the street, the one I still go to now with my younger siblings… or sometimes just by myself when I need to breathe. That place still feels like ours.

She loves to read. She can’t really read anymore, but there’s always a book sitting on the table beside her chair like it belongs there. Like she belongs there. She still gives me her old books—like pieces of her being passed down gently, story by story. She used to tell me bedtime stories too—real ones, from her childhood. I wish I could hear them all again. I wish I had written them down.

Tomato soup and grilled cheese were her comfort meals, and somehow they still taste like home. She once took me to visit my mom in Florida—our only vacation together—but one I’ll never forget. It wasn’t about where we went, but the way she made it feel like everything was okay.

And now, everything feels like it’s changing.

I find myself remembering more than usual lately. Not just moments, but feelings. The warmth of her hands, the tone of her voice, the way she’d look at me like I was her whole world. And it’s heavy. It’s beautiful, but it’s heavy. That’s the weight of remembering—wanting to hold on to every little piece because you’re starting to realize they might slip through your fingers soon.

Losing someone slowly is its own kind of heartbreak. It’s the ache that builds quietly, the one you carry even as you smile, even as you try to stay strong. And if you’re feeling that too, just know you’re not alone.

Some memories are light and soft. Some are thick and sharp. And some sit on your chest like bricks you carry with love. I think that’s okay. I think that’s what it means to have been loved deeply.

This is what the weight of remembering feels like.

And I’m holding it close.