Cream Puffs & Grief Patterns

Two weeks ago we had our spring break. The days were full—nonstop, really. We packed so much into a short amount of time.

We visited family, made it to doctor’s appointments, got haircuts, and had a cozy movie night in with snacks and a late bedtime.

I had work to finish, we squeezed in a never-ending list of errands—donuts, the bank, a few shops, even a quick tour of a family member’s office.

We volunteered, spent time at the park, walked by the river (where my daughter spotted a snake and screamed so loud that my ears are still ringing), wandered through a used bookshop, and grabbed stuffed breadsticks and ice cream.

We wrapped it all up with a trip to Columbus for an overnight stay—dinner and a show, swimming at the hotel, and the new Minecraft movie.

All of that, somehow, while still juggling the usual parenting duties, household tasks, and the never-ending background noise of being a grown-up.

It was a lot.

By Sunday, we were back home, and everything finally slowed down.

It still wasn’t quiet. Kids are kids. They’re loud, they need things, and they don’t care if you’re running on fumes. But we didn’t have anywhere to be, just trying to relax before getting back to our regular routine.

And that’s when I started to feel it. The restlessness. The irritability. The low hum of frustration that shows up when I haven’t had any time to myself.

The all too familiar feeling that creeps in after too many days of putting everyone else first. No space to breathe, no pause, no quiet.

Normally, I’m pretty self-aware and can catch my emotions before they get out of hand. But the week had been so full—just go, go, go—that I wasn’t doing that. I wasn’t checking in, I hadn’t had a single minute alone. I was grumpy, overstimulated, and everyone was getting on my nerves.

Later in the evening, my mom asked me to call her. I went upstairs to take it because there was no chance I'd be able to concentrate with two little gremlins yelling "MOM!" every second.

I shut the door behind me, my mind still swimming with the chaos downstairs, and waited for her to answer.

I already knew what she needed—she’d mentioned earlier that she might need help with some paperwork. But it wasn’t until I was actually on the phone, doing it, that it registered.

She needed help with the life insurance claim.
My dad's life insurance claim.

There it was. Reality.
My dad is gone.

Suddenly, the restlessness from earlier made more sense.
It wasn’t just that I was touched out, overstimulated, and exhausted—though I absolutely was—something heavier had been quietly building, waiting for a quiet moment to rise to the surface.

And when it did, the pain crashed over me—fast, sharp, and full-body.
Like the air had been knocked out of me, and somehow I was still expected to breathe.

Losing someone you love does plays tricks on your mind.
It distorts time. Dulls reality.
You go through the motions. You get busy. You get distracted.
And for a moment, it felt like my old life—like it did before I had something to remember.

In that moment, it was like he died all over again. It felt as raw as it had the night I said goodbye.

I forgot to remember. All week.

I couldn’t believe I had gone days without crying.
Days without really thinking about him.
After three straight months where he was all I thought about—every second, every breath—how was that even possible?

The guilt hit me just as hard as the grief.
How could I let myself forget?
What kind of daughter does that?

I felt ashamed for slipping back into routine.
For letting life carry on, even briefly.
For not lighting a candle. Not talking to him. Not doing the things that usually help me feel close.

It felt like I had let the connection fade.
And in that moment, I really believed I had.

I hung up with my mom and headed for the shower. Showers have always been my safe space. It’s where I let myself fall apart and give myself permission to let it all out.

There’s something so soothing about the water—how it wraps around me, steady and quiet, holding me up while it washes away my tears.

I didn’t get in to escape, I got in because I knew I needed to feel it.

And I did. I felt it in every part of my body—a physically painful cry.
My legs grew weak, my breath violently torn from my chest, the pressure in my eyes pulsing with every sob.

I begged him to help me.
I told him how much I missed him.
How much I loved him.
How far away he felt.

I told him I didn’t feel strong.
That I didn’t know how to keep going without him.
That I needed him to show me his light because I could feel the darkness taking over.

I begged him, over and over—
Please help me.
Please show me a sign. Something. Anything to help me feel you.

I turned off the water, stepped out, and got dressed.

I kissed my kids goodnight—still puffy-eyed, numb, and guilt-ridden—and went downstairs.

And then, without really thinking, I started making cream puffs.

I didn’t think twice.
There was no plan, no decision ahead of time.
I just found myself doing it.

And the whole time, I was thinking about him.
He used to make these for us.
As I stood in my own kitchen, adding the eggs, stirring the dough, I pictured him in his—doing the same.
Like we were making them together.

I sent a picture to my mom and brother and told them I could hear him say,
“Really?! You’re making cream puffs when eggs are five dollars a dozen?! Yao!”

I laughed through my tears.

I’d pay a lot more than five dollars to feel connected to you.

It wasn’t a moment that fixed everything and I didn't take it as a sign or a message.
But it sure made me feel closer to him.

I enjoyed my overpriced cream puffs and went to bed.

Morning came but sleep hadn’t softened a thing. I woke up just as tired, heavy, and overwhelmingly sad.

I thought maybe if I eased back into my routine, I could find comfort—some sense of closeness, or grounding.

I lit my sage and took a few deep breaths, trying to let the stillness settle around me. I opened my gratitude journal and followed the prompts as I usually do. When I got to the final prompt—Today my affirmation is—I didn’t feel like coming up with anything on my own, so I pulled a card from the Gabby app.

It said:

“My productivity stems from inspiration. When I focus on what brings me joy, my tasks become effortless actions.”

It made me realize that while getting back into the swing of things felt good, it most definitely was not effortless. I didn’t feel like doing anything. I had no energy, mentally or physically. It felt forced.

Still, the “shoulds” crept in—the quiet pressure to be more connected, to do more, to be more. That voice has followed me for most of my life.

But I’d learned that resisting what I’m feeling—trying to push past or rise above—only makes things worse. So instead of judging myself, I checked in—gently.

I asked myself what I actually needed, not what I should be doing, but what I could handle in that moment, and in doing so, it took the edge off the pressure. It reminded me that I didn’t have to do it all.  I just had to be honest with myself.

“I honor the weight I carry and the truth of my heart. I don’t need to show or prove. I trust that what’s for me will come. Back to myself. The rest will come in time. I am guided, supported, and loved.”

But the truth was, I didn’t know how to do that.

I felt stuck between needing to reconnect, wanting to be gentle with myself, and knowing there were still things I’d fallen behind on from last week.

I knew what I needed. I just didn’t know how to live it—what to prioritize, where to begin, or how to carry that need into a day that still required something from me.

I didn't have it in me to sit in silence or perform any emotionally demanding practices.  I needed support and guidance in a way that met me where I was. 

So that's what I asked for.

I asked my dad. I asked my guides. I asked the universe.

Not for a sign or some big, magical moment—just for support. For help making sense of the day and help shape the direction of my day. And then I started writing. Journaling has played a huge role in my healing.

I don’t follow a structure or try to make it sound pretty. I just let the words flow.

When I do what I call automatic writing, it’s like I step outside of myself and respond as if I’m speaking to someone I love—because I do love myself—and when I write from that space, I often receive the kind of clarity I couldn’t have reached without doing so.

What I found in that space was this:

I hadn’t let go of my connection.
I hadn’t failed or forgotten him.
I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I’d just been overwhelmed.
I'd just been busy. 

And when life gets loud, the love doesn’t go away—it just gets harder to feel.

But it was still there.

In the moment at that little shop downtown, standing in front of a table full of memorial pieces I hadn’t been looking for. In the candle that said your light will shine on.
In the bluejays.
In the cream puffs, the laugh. The moment that felt like nothing but ended up meaning everything.

They were all there. I just didn’t notice them fully—because I was living.

And when I softened into that truth—I found him again, right where he’d always been.

I didn’t feel that heavy guilt anymore. I didn’t keep believing the story that I had let go of him, that I’d somehow failed.

I wasn’t disconnected. I didn’t lose it. I just forgot to feel it. I forgot to notice the ways it was already there.

I was just being.
This is life.
The normal ebb and flow of grief.

The remembering was hard.
It always is.
But it doesn’t mean I’ve done anything wrong.
It doesn’t mean the connection is gone.
It just means I’m still loving someone through the ache of missing them.

And this—this rhythm, this wave—is part of it.
This is grief.
This is healing.

This just is.

I’ve been here before.
And I’ll be here again.

And when I am, I know I’ll find my way back—just like I always do.

All my love,