For so long, I believed that planning my life meant securing it, shaping each year into something more stable, more predictable, more perfect. I didn’t plan obsessively, but even the act of organizing my life annually felt like a way to stay in control, to imagine a future I could trust.
And truthfully, I never fully knew where I was going. I just kept painting pictures of the best possible outcome based on my hopes and experiences, believing that if I aimed for perfection, I’d land somewhere safe.
But something I’ve come to understand—something that has gently unraveled within me—is this: God doesn’t always move through perfection.
„For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD.”
„For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.” (Isaiah 55:8-9)
His ways are so different. Where I used to see life in black and white, He brings color through detours and delays, through grief and unexpected healing. He takes us down roads less traveled — roads that reshape us and tenderly change the lens through which we see the world.
I won’t pretend it’s easy. Letting go is painful. We like to think highly of ourselves and the lives we build, so when God humbles us, it hurts. Before my mom went to be with Jesus, I had so many plans. I had her love, her presence — her unique, quiet way of standing by me. And then, everything changed.
Now, most days, I simply say, “Thank you, Lord, for today. May Your will be done, not mine.” I’m learning to welcome the healing that’s slowly unfolding. I don’t rush it. I let it come, one breath at a time.
This season has brought me closer to God. I go to church almost every Sunday now. It gives me space to cry, to grieve freely, not in hiding. I no longer swallow my tears or bury my sighs deep in my chest. I bring them to the altar, knowing I am not alone.
Some days are still busy and loud; others, heavy and silent. There were times I feared writing — feared facing what I felt — because I knew I wasn’t fully healed. I’m still not. I’m still in the middle of the journey.
After forty days of mourning, I slowly began to step out of the all-black clothes I wore. Some people noticed and asked why. The truth is, I’ve suffered deeply. And maybe now, I’m choosing to carry the pain differently — not in colors, but in grace. I’m choosing to stand taller, to honor my mom by living, and to let the world know: she may be gone from sight, but never from my soul.
At church, a kind nun once told me, “Grieve. Cry. But not so much that you trouble God, Jesus, and Holy Mary. For this life is brief, and we will all reunite someday.” That stayed with me. It reminded me that my mom wouldn’t want my sorrow to keep me from joy.
She’s still with me. I feel her. I talk to her. Sometimes, in the quietest moments, I sense her presence — a hand on my arm, a whisper in my soul. I visit her grave almost every week, bringing flowers — usually white, symbols of peace, love, and gratitude for the life she gave me.
Often, I don’t know what to say. I just sit. I watch the leaves move in the wind, the sunlight warming the wooden cross. Sometimes, I cry. Other times, I can’t. And when I get up to leave, I feel her soul asking me to stay just a little longer.
Not long ago, I saw a video of a young man listening to the songs of our parents’ time. It made me remember how my mom used to pause and reminisce about her own parents — the ache, the absence, the love. And I realized… I’ve become that soul, too. Remembering. Missing. Sitting quietly with memories that feel like yesterday and forever ago.
Grief changes you. And yes, I’ve changed.
I may still smile and stay strong for others, but the smile carries a new depth. There’s tenderness in the cracks now, and faith where certainty used to be. The loss shook me, but it also rooted me deeper in God.
He gave me signs — through dreams, through silence, through the aching moments of stillness. My mom came to me in dreams almost every day after she passed. She and God knew I still needed her.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m walking toward it with open hands. I’m healing — slowly, gently — and doing my best to live as the person I was always meant to become. Not rushed. Not perfect. Just real.
And for that, I am thankful — even for the pain. Because it carved space for grace. It taught me to rest, to listen, to let go of what no longer serves me. I no longer plan everything. I wake up and welcome each new day as a gift.
God has my back. And my mom — she’s watching from above, holding me close in her own way. Always.
Katherine's Blog 