We didn’t.
If you’ve been following along, you might have noticed the silence. The Instagram posts that stopped and the non-existent, empty blog. It would be easy to assume we forgot, that life got busy, and that was that.
We didn’t forget to write. We just stopped writing here, there and everywhere. We journaled our way through 2025.
Loss has a way of rearranging everything. It doesn’t ask permission. It simply arrives, and suddenly, the things that felt important and posting were part of this have just disappeared. We were writing, though. Every single day.
The journal pages filled up fast, and the goal was to write daily for 2025. Morning pages that turned into afternoon pages that bled into late-night pages. Writing that no one would see. Writing that wasn’t polished or profound, but was an attempt to make sense of a world that had suddenly stopped making sense.
There’s something different about journal writing when you’re navigating grief. It’s not performance. It’s not content. It’s excavation. You’re digging through layers of feelings, and thinking about what could and might have been.
The blog sat silent because we had nothing to package. No inspirational pivot to share. Just the daily practice of putting pen to paper and seeing what came out.
Social media has a way of making us believe that if we’re not posting, we’re not present. That if we’re not sharing, we’re not experiencing. But taking time away to live and write quietly was cathartic.
We weren’t absent. We were just elsewhere, like in the pages of notebook after notebook.
We didn’t forget to write. We just remembered that not everything is meant for an audience. Some words are written to prove we’re still here, still processing, still becoming whoever we’re meant to be on the other side of loss.