Grief Can Dance Too

The Space Where Love Still Lives

Today would have been my mother's 72nd birthday, and I find myself sitting in the quiet space where memory and reality meet. Today also marks one week since my oldest brother passed away and joined her on the other side of eternity. A week that feels both impossibly long and impossibly short. 

Time has moved in strange ways, stretching and folding in on itself as grief often does. In my heart, I imagine them line dancing together: free, whole, and filled with laughter. I also hold my father close today, gone more than forty years, but never absent from the story of who I've become. 

Love does not end. It dances across generations.
They are not gone. They are gathered. 

Grief and gratitude sit side by side in me, reminding me that love never truly leaves; it simply changes form. There are moments when the weight of loss feels heavy, and others when joy rises unexpectedly through a memory, a song, or a simple breath. I'm learning that multiple truths can live in the same heart at once: sorrow and peace, longing and acceptance, tears and quiet smiles. 

If you are grieving too, know that there is no single way to carry it. Give yourself permission to remember gently, pause when needed, and honor both the ache and the beauty that love leaves behind. 

And in the middle of this sacred, tender space, something else quietly happened: this blog crossed 100,000 views. 

One hundred thousand. 

Eighty-five countries around the world have now paused here. South Korea joined the community this week, bringing the total to 411 regions and territories represented. That reality humbles me more than I can put into words. What began as a small, honest space to process love, loss, and life has reached hearts across oceans and time zones. 

Today, I'm simply grateful for the quiet strength that meets me each day, for the steady presence of God, and for the people who hold space when words fall short. And on a day that holds my mother's 72nd birthday, one week without my brother, and decades without my father, I am reminded that even in grief, life continues to ripple outward. Love expands. Connection multiplies. What feels deeply personal somehow becomes shared. 

Thank you for being here. Wherever "here" is for you in the world. 

Wherever you find yourself on your own journey, may you feel supported enough to breathe, reflect, and keep moving forward at your own pace. Love endures, even here, especially here. 

With love, gratitude, and quiet courage, 

Stacie J.

11:47 - My Heart Stood Still

Honoring My Best Friend

February 5, 2026, just before noon, my oldest brother transitioned from this life to the eternal arms of the Most High God.  

He Was My First Friend

I find myself remembering the oddest things. Like him pushing me down the hill on the Big Wheel. Or making me give it up so our younger siblings could ride. I remember when he and my younger brother went racing down the hill in Mount Winans, near Grandma Mayme and Grandpa Martin's house, and crashed my Big Wheel. I cried so hard and beat on his back. I got in trouble for being violent, but I was sure I was right because he had promised not to destroy my Big Wheel. 

I remember us making igloos during winter storms when we lived in Westport. He hid in one, and I couldn't find him. Because he wasn't just my big brother but my first real friend, you guessed it, I cried, convinced the snow had eaten him. 

I remember him taking me to the bus at the top of the hill, not a school bus, but the one converted into a grocery store run by a man named Mr. Doc. We loved him because sometimes we'd buy ten pieces of penny candy and he'd throw in a few extras, or slip some penny cookies into our bag. 

The Boy Who Took Care of Us

My brother was responsible (sort of) at a young age. He knew how to pay bills, buy groceries, and take my siblings and me to school. He had to. My mother worked, and my father had already passed away. 

Our Games, Our Music, Our Joy

I loved playing basketball with him, honestly, any sport. He loved having me on his team because, well, I was something of a superstar athlete. I was shorter than he and his friends, but I had a mean arm. I could throw a football and pitch a wicked curveball. He was athletic too: tall, always pretending he could dunk (he couldn't), but I cheered him on anyway. 

We loved singing together and yes, he really could sing. Then he got into rap and tried to get my siblings and me involved. His early rap name was Special Ed at one point. I think he also had a DJ name. My younger brother was Brainy B, my middle sister was Special K and my baby sister was MC Nae. I think I was Puddie-E. Those were fun times. 

Me and my brother used to win all the dance contests and the Avon bags that went along with them. 

We played WWE SmackDown, dressed up like superheroes, hung from things, jumped on and off dressers and trees, built nunchucks from scratch, shared skates, and rode down hills with one foot each in a skate, holding hands and hoping for the best. 

The Man He Became

My brother was a pride-filled man. He loved dressing nicely and doted on his siblings with new shoes and sweats when he could. He worked three jobs in high school so he could "stunt," yes, but also so he wouldn't be a burden to my mother. He saw how stressed she was and wanted to help.

He was a knucklehead and a jokester who loved his family ferociously and would go to war for us. He loved business and entrepreneurship and loved learning, but just not in school settings (school was my job). 

He made me an aunt with my first nephew, who looks just like him. 

He was stubborn as hell, which is part of why, in my opinion, he left this life far too soon. We didn't know he was sick, seriously sick, until it was too late. 

He Cheered Me On

He cheered me on at every stage of my life: through being a teenage mother, going to college, writing my books, and, most recently, running my first marathon. In fact, I FaceTimed him the day I finished my first race of the new year: She Power. I told him how I improved my pace by nearly three minutes per mile and finished sixteen minutes faster than last year. He was so proud and even, through his pain and discomfort, he cheered me on. 

He carried my mother's smile and her hearty laughter, which still makes me smile, and I'd say he carried my father's adventurous spirit too. 

I miss him already. 

If he were reading this, he'd probably laugh, shake his head, and tell me I was being extra and then hug me anyway. He loved my corny jokes, laughed at them, poked fun at me, and somehow still let me keep telling them. That feels important to remember. 

I don't have anything profound to say to close this. I just know that my big brother...my first friend mattered. I don't need closure right now. I just need space to remember, to laugh, to grieve, and to keep going. 

Today, I miss him. Tomorrow, I'll probably miss him differently. For now, this is enough. 

With tears and a heart of gratitude because I've learned multiple things can be true at the same time. 

Stacie J.