Practice
By: Jamie Bui
I sit on my bench, my rectangular sanctuary. I tell myself it’s time to meditate again, which is really just me crying outdoors. I search for any sign of him, in the wind, in the morning chill. It’s February and the sunlight barely reaches my corner.
I open my app, as I’ve done every single day, and play a meditation recording. The tears rush out of my eyes as if they’ve been eagerly waiting for the “We’re Open” sign to turn. I sob and cough and wipe my snot, glancing the candle’s ceremonious glow through worn eyes.
“It’s OK to feel this way.”
“You’re safe.”
I say these phrases, over and over, but they fit me like a sweater hugging me in all the wrong ways. I would cringe if I wasn’t convulsing so intensely. These aren’t words I’m used to hearing, much less saying to myself, but I continue out of habit. This has been my practice for days now, a pull that came from seemingly nowhere and everywhere after he died. The alternative is cruelty and punishment, tools I vowed to never use on my children. All the love I was ready to blanket him with, now awkwardly swaddling me. But I refuse to let that die, too.
Eventually, I think I start to believe myself. And I wonder, “did I just save my life?”
Jamie is a mother to two boys. Her second born,
Noah, died in February 2025 from HIE. She honors him through crafting and art, hosting a monthly snail mail exchange with other loss moms, writing, making free care packages for hospitals, and creating memorial items.
Jamie and her fellow bereaved mom friend Jazz serve on our new Grieving Mothers’ Circle Committee.
Her Etsy shop is pinkslothshoppe.etsy.com, and her
website is griefandwhimsy.org.
You can find her writings on her Substack~Plantingprimrose.
Every Day Is Practice
No one teaches a mother how to live after the death of her child or a spouse to go on parenting after the loss of her spouse. There is no map for waking up in a world that continues to move while yours has been forever changed. There isn’t a finish line where grief disappears or a moment when you’ve finally “figured it out.”
Instead, there is practice. Practice getting out of bed when your heart feels impossibly heavy. Practice saying your child’s name aloud without apologizing for your tears. Practice allowing joy to visit without believing you’ve left your loved one behind. Practice asking for help. Practice setting boundaries. Practice resting when grief exhausts you.
Some days the practice feels natural. Other days it feels impossible. Both are part of the journey. Healing isn’t about becoming someone who no longer grieves. It’s about gently practicing how to carry both love and loss together. It’s learning that your heart can hold profound sorrow while still making room for beauty, laughter, hope, and purpose.
Grief is not something to overcome—it is something to tend to with compassion, one day at a time.
If today feels difficult, remember this: you don’t have to do it perfectly. You only have to keep practicing.
Here’s your gentle reminder that grief is not measured by milestones, but by the small, courageous acts of showing up each day with love, tenderness, and grace with yourself.