Greys Anatomy

Unpopular Opinion: My favorite episode of Grey’s Anatomy is the one where Derek dies — or maybe the one after. That was ten years ago, and I still go back and watch it sometimes as a reminder of why we experience pain and grief.

Right now, as I’m grieving (people are sick and fucking tired of it, I know — but no one is more than I am), I went back and watched it in full this morning. When Meredith is at the hospital, she calmly says out loud, softly, that Derek died. I said it like that, too.

I even had to ask Rick what happened later. The shock was real. One of Brandon’s favorite shows was Lucifer, and Detective Daniel from Lucifer was Officer Dan in that episode of Grey’s. He wasn’t in Lucifer until a year later, so I wouldn’t have known who he was at all back then.

Brandon and I used to call our spot “our bubble,” and in the episode, Bailey and Ben are fighting about life support — and they used the same phrase. Then there was the scene when Meredith hemorrhaged. Whew. Our Bubble didn't exist ten years ago. Ten years ago we were still people from each others past ... catching up...

My favorite episode of my favorite show — one that’s ten years old — means even more to me now than it did then. There are signs, right? #greysanatomy

The Unfairness Between Two Lives

I am angry.
Angry at how the world seems to hand out chances unevenly. My father lived most of a full life, deep in his addiction, hurting everyone in his path. He abandoned his children, broke hearts, destroyed trust — and yet, somehow, he kept living. He got to grow old. He got five marriages. Five children he walked away from. And still, the world kept giving him more time.

But Brandon didn’t get that time. He barely reached forty. He didn’t overcome his addiction either, but his addiction wasn’t born out of cruelty — it was born out of pain. It was inherited, in part, from people like my father. It came from wounds that weren’t entirely his fault. And still, life took him.

I can’t stop thinking about the contrast: the man who wasted every chance lived, while the one who still had something good left to give — to his kids, to me — was taken. My future with him was stolen. His children lost their father. And I’m left trying to make sense of how the universe could allow that imbalance.

I’m angry at my father’s survival. Angry at genetics. Angry at addiction. Angry at how unfair it is that Brandon carried pain that wasn’t his to carry. I hate that he had to fight a battle that ran through generations — and still lost it.

I don’t want to understand it yet. I just want to scream at the unfairness of it all. Because it isn’t fair.
Because I loved him.
Because he deserved more than what he got.

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.

Mood and Grief Tracker

July 28, 2025

Mood (1 = Terrible, 5 = Peaceful/Content): 2

Grief (1 = Overwhelming, 5 = Calm): 3

My scale also reflects the small tantrum and rage fit I had today but not my mood the whole day.

My Imprint for the day goes to Stephanie Wiggins because she volunteered as tribute and we had breakfast together 

Kintsugi

I Am Kintsugi

There’s a Japanese art form called Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired using lacquer mixed with powdered gold. Instead of hiding the cracks, the artist highlights them. The break isn’t something to be ashamed of—it becomes part of the object’s story, making it more valuable than before.

My therapist recently told me, “You’re like Kintsugi pottery.”

I took the illustration she gave me and sat with it. The more I thought about it, the more I understood. I have been shattered—by grief, by loss, by things I never asked for but had to carry anyway. When someone I love died, I cracked in ways I didn’t know were possible. My routines broke. My beliefs broke. My sense of time, of fairness, of safety—splintered. I thought I would never be whole again.

But I’m starting to learn something: healing doesn’t mean going back to who I was. It means honoring who I am now—because of what I’ve lived through.

Even though the cracks are visible, a lot like scars on our skin, the gold inlaid is a sign of healing.

The gold that fills my cracks isn’t glittery or obvious.

Sometimes it’s quiet strength—the ability to get out of bed on days I don’t want to.

Sometimes it’s vulnerability—the way I can now speak openly about my pain.

Sometimes it’s connection—how I can sit with others in their grief because I truly understand it.

I didn’t choose the breaking.

But I am choosing the gold, for now.

And every time I show up for myself—every time I write, cry, or reflect instead of going numb—I’m painting those cracks with something resilient and real.

So no, I’m not “good as new.”

I’m better.

I’m different.

My scars are beautiful.

I am Kintsugi.

🌀 Reader Reflection

If you’re reading this and feel like you’re in pieces—know this: you don’t have to put yourself back together the same way. You can be changed and still be whole. Your cracks don’t make you less; they can become the most honest, human, and beautiful parts of you.

How have your broken places been filled with gold?

I’d love to hear what healing has looked like for you.

Here are a few questions to reflect on:

1. What are the “cracks” in your life that you’ve learned to live with—or even grow from?
2. If you were made of Kintsugi, what would your gold be?
   What strength or lesson has filled your broken places?
3. Has your pain shaped you into someone more compassionate or wise? How?
4. What part of your story do you now see as beautiful, even if it hurt at the time?
5. What does healing look like for you today—not perfect, but real?