Fake It Till You Make It

Fake It Till You Make It

Do they say fake it till you make it because eventually you start to believe in your own confidence?
Do they say it because the pretending becomes a kind of truth—or maybe just a distraction?

Is it about keeping yourself so occupied that you forget how sad you are? Forget how much you miss them?

I go about my day—working, adulting, doing all the things I’m supposed to do. To strangers, I probably look unaffected. I smile, I move, I function. But beneath the surface, the sadness is still there, tucked deep in my heart. Maybe this is what faking it looks like—going through the motions until, someday, the ache feels less sharp.

Is that what they mean? That one day I’ll realize the pain isn’t as heavy, the sadness not as constant? That I’ll be so busy living that the missing won’t consume me?

Maybe then I’ll realize the ache has eased. Maybe that’s when I’ll know I’ve “made it.”

But right now—77 days in—the ache is strong. The pain is fierce. I miss him with every breath. Outwardly, I may look fine, but inside there are aches, whispers, and a noticeable missing piece.

So yes, I’m faking it. And some days, I don’t even care if I ever make it—I just want the ache to ease.

Finding home

Day 64 — Finding Home

I was talking with someone about my grief journey and she asked, “Is there anyone who feels like home to you?”

Without thinking, I said, “Brandon was my home.”

Most of the time my soul felt safe there. Not always, but I knew with him my soul could be its truest form.

As I sat with that, it hit me: that’s why I feel so lost — because I’m homeless.

Right then Avril Lavigne’s “Nobody’s Home” started playing in my head.

I’ve never really felt at home in a place. At Helene’s house, she would tell people I wasn’t her real daughter, just someone she raised. By eighteen, I was pushed away.

With my mother, her mindset was that if I rejected her, I was no longer her problem.

I never quite fit in with a friend group growing up, or even now. I’ve always felt weird, quirky — and I’ve failed at every attempt to look like everyone else. (Of course you fail at being something you’re not.)

I used to give Brandon a list of reasons I was unlovable, and somehow he loved most of them.

Now that he’s gone, I keep bumping into that question again: Where is home?

I’m beginning to wonder if “home” isn’t always a person or a place. Maybe it can also be moments, rituals, or parts of myself that feel like truth.

Home might be the quiet of early morning before anyone wakes up.

Home might be a dog leaning against my leg.

Home might be the way my own handwriting looks in a journal, or the way a favorite song fills a room.

Maybe home is any space where my soul is allowed to be fully itself, even if it’s just me holding that space for me.

It feels strange to imagine, but I’m trying to believe that I can begin to build little homes inside and around me — safe pockets where my spirit can rest. They’ll never replace Brandon, but they can hold me while I keep walking forward.

All along, I had to believe that home resides within myself and it is up to me to find places for my soul to rest unmasked.

Hold Me

Hold Me

I’ve got you.
I’ll take you to a place where you are safe.
Hold on to me—
I will carry you to where love and laughter live,
where there is no more fighting, no more tears.

Come with me.
We’ll be safe in our bubble,
safe together.

You are the love of my life,
the greatest loss of my life.
I will love you all my days.
I will never hurt you again.

Stay with me.
I still need you.
Don’t leave me.
I still want you.
I will love you right.

---

You woke before the sunrise,
hid yourself away behind the bathroom door.
You said you were fine—
but I saw the evidence with my own eyes.
I chose to believe the lie.

You told me you wouldn’t die.
I wanted to believe you.

Days passed.
You grew so tired.
I prayed for the silence to end,
but when it broke, it wasn’t your voice—
a call,
a sound that froze my bones.

Shock held me in place
when it should have been your arms.

---

Hold me.
I still need you.
Can you hear me cry out to you?
Please—don’t let go.

There you lay on the ground.
I reach for your hand,
longing to pull you into me,
to let my love make this right.

Endless miles blur beneath my tires
as I drive away,
carrying a nightmare I can’t escape.

I am strong, but I need you.
Come back, I still want you.
I cry out—don’t leave me.

I will love you for the rest of my life.