There’s something that happens when you lose a friend—it’s like the world keeps spinning, but a tiny piece of you just…stops. You still pack lunches, still argue with a seven-year-old about wearing socks, still chase a four-year-old through Target, but everything hums at a slightly different frequency. It’s moments like this that made me want to start my Miami Mom Blog to begin with.
Grief is strange like that. It sneaks into the quiet moments. I’ll be folding laundry, and suddenly I remember her laugh—how she always tilted her head back just a little too far, how it bubbled up out of her chest like she was surprised every single time she found something funny. Then I’ll catch myself smiling, which feels both wrong and right at once.
Miami can be such a loud, colorful place that grief feels almost out of place here. The sun doesn’t care that you’re sad. The ocean keeps rolling in, kids keep splashing, music spills out of cars at every red light. And yet, maybe that’s what helps. You can’t hide here for long—the light finds you whether you’re ready or not.
I’ve learned that losing someone doesn’t just make you miss them; it makes you pay attention to everyone else more carefully. I find myself noticing Nico’s goofy dance moves or Anthony’s half-sung songs with this fierce kind of love that almost hurts. There’s this urgency now, this need to memorize the small things—the sticky fingerprints on the fridge door, Rex snoring on the couch after pretending he’d “just rest his eyes.” It’s all fleeting, and maybe that’s what makes it so precious.
When my friend died, I kept replaying our last conversation. I don’t even remember what we talked about—probably something boring like dinner plans or sunscreen—but what sticks with me is how ordinary it was. I used to wish it had been something profound, something that would echo forever. But now I think maybe that’s the point. Life is mostly made up of those simple, throwaway moments that don’t feel like much until they’re gone.
There’s this idea that grief gets smaller over time, but I think it’s the opposite. Life just gets bigger around it. The kids grow, new memories pile up, birthdays come and go. The missing doesn’t shrink—it just gets tucked into a corner of your heart where it can live quietly, surfacing when you least expect it.
Sometimes at the beach, I’ll close my eyes and let the waves crash over my ankles, and I swear I can feel her there, laughing at me for wearing real clothes instead of a swimsuit. I can almost hear her say, “Come on, Nat, lighten up.” And for a second, I do. I let myself laugh out loud at nothing, like an absolute weirdo, and it feels good.
Maybe that’s what comes after—the laughter that still shows up, the memories that sneak back in without asking, the love that refuses to leave just because the person did. Life doesn’t pause for grief, but it makes room for it. The joy stretches to fit both the sadness and the sunshine.
So I keep moving. I keep showing up for the messy, beautiful, everyday stuff. I let the boys drag me into pillow fights, I let Rex make too much coffee, I let myself feel it all—the ache, the laughter, the gratitude.
Because maybe what comes after isn’t about death at all. Maybe it’s about learning to live fully, even with the missing. Maybe it’s about noticing the tiny, imperfect moments that make up this whole wild, wonderful thing called life.