When I first became a grief coach, I thought my role was to help others navigate loss. Plot twist: turns out my clients were also teaching me how to actually enjoy my life. Who knew?
The Gift of Presence (Or: How I Learned to Actually Drink My Coffee)
Sitting with someone in their grief demands complete presence. There's no room for my mind to wander to tomorrow's to-do list or obsess over that awkward thing I said in 2014. You have to be right there.
And truthfully, that skill doesn't just stay in my coaching sessions. It leaks out into my regular life like a helpful virus.
Now when I'm drinking my morning coffee, I'm actually there for it. The warmth of the cup, the quiet before chaos, the taste. I'm not gulping it down while scrolling through emails and mentally writing my grocery list. These aren't just transitions between more important moments anymore - they ARE the moments.
My clients have shown me that being fully present is one of the few things that makes unbearable pain bearable. Turns out, that same presence is what transforms ordinary Tuesday morning coffee into something worth savoring. Who knew the secret to joy was just... paying attention?
Appreciating What's Consistent (Or: An Ode to Boring Reliability)
One of the unbearable things that grief does: is it highlights what's missing with painful clarity. The chair that stays empty. The phone that doesn't ring. The inside jokes that nobody else gets anymore.
But watching my clients sit with that absence makes me notice something in my own life...all the things that are not missing. The friend who always texts back (even if it takes her three days). My husband who still laughs at my jokes (or at least pretends to). My body that wakes up each morning, makes weird creaking sounds (thanks perimenopause), and carries me through another day.
I used to think "consistency" was just a fancy word for "boring." The same people, the same routines, the same tree outside my window doing its predictable seasonal thing. Yawn, right?
Wrong. So wrong.
Consistency isn't boring (hear me out - I, myself am still trying to learn this). Routine and consistency is kind of the whole point. It's the people and things we can count on that make everything else possible. I was so busy chasing the next exciting thing, the next achievement, the next dopamine hit, that I completely missed the miracle of what was already there, showing up for me day after day.
The tree outside my window that I barely noticed? It's been marking every season of my life for the past 10 years. My morning routine that felt mundane? It's the scaffold that holds my entire world together. The people who stay? They're not the supporting cast ... they are the whole show.
Grief work taught me that "still here" is actually a profound status update.
Knowing What I Have Agency Over (And What I Definitely Don't)
One of the toughest parts of grief work is staring straight at what we cannot control. I can't bring someone back. I can't magically erase my client's pain. I can't speed-run grief like it's a video game (believe me, people have asked, and I have watched people try).
But the surprising gift in all that powerlessness: when you get crystal clear about what you can't control, suddenly what you can control lights up like a neon sign.
I can't control whether someone I love will get sick, but I can pick up the phone and call them right now. I can't control the dumpster fire that is the news cycle, but I can control whether I'm kind to the grocery store cashier who looks exhausted. I can't control how many Tuesdays I get, but I can decide whether I spend this one watching reels or videos (valid) or finally trying that recipe I've been saving for "someday."
This isn't about toxic positivity or pretending everything's fine. It's about recognizing that even when 90% of life is out of our hands, we still get to decide what to do with the 10% we're holding.
My clients taught me this without meaning to. Even in their darkest moments, they were still making choices. How to spend this particular day. Whether to reach out or sit quietly. What small thing might bring a moment of comfort. Watching them exercise that agency with such intention made me realize I'd been sleepwalking through my own choices, letting days blur together on autopilot.
Turns out, knowing what you can't control isn't depressing—it's weirdly liberating. Instead of feeling helpless about everything, I feel empowered about something. And most days, that something is more than enough.
The Unexpected Plot Twist
There's something kind of wild about grief work making me more joyful. It sounds like one of those inspirational Instagram posts that makes you roll your eyes a little. But it's true.
Here's the thing: joy isn't the opposite of grief - numbness is. The same heart that can crack wide open with loss can overflow with appreciation. My clients reminded me that feeling deeply, even when it hurts, is what makes us fully human. The alternative - going through life half-asleep, protected but disconnected - is worse.
Being a grief coach didn't teach me to be happy all the time (thank goodness, that would be exhausting). It taught me to be awake. To notice the good stuff while it's here. To appreciate the reliable, the ordinary, the present moment. To use the agency I actually have instead of stressing about the control I don't.
I'm more joyful now not because I learned some secret hack or solved all my problems. I'm more joyful because I finally understood, bone-deep, that this moment - this very ordinary, slightly messy, perfectly imperfect moment - is all we ever really have.
And weirdly? That's not depressing. It's the most freeing thing I've ever learned.
What we have right now is enough. Not because we're settling or giving up on dreams, but because it's real, it's here, and we're alive to experience it. Also, your coffee's getting cold. Go drink it while it's still warm.
