Some Rooms Love Volume More Than Value

The Problem With Grief Is That It Changes Your Address

Grief doesn’t just break your heart. It quietly changes your address. Not the one your mail gets delivered to. The one your soul lives at. One day you wake up and realize you’re no longer living in the life you once knew. Your house may be the same. Your job hasn’t changed. Your friends are still in your phone. Your favorite coffee shop still knows your order. From the outside, everything looks familiar. But inside? You’ve moved. You now live in a place where dates carry more weight than days. Where birthdays aren’t just birthdays. Where ordinary Tuesdays can suddenly become unbearable because twenty years ago on an ordinary Tuesday, your entire world changed. You live where a song can reroute your entire afternoon. Where the smell of sunscreen reminds you of summers that never got to happen. Where a tiny pair of shoes in a store can steal your breath before you’ve even realized why. You live in a neighborhood where joy and sorrow aren’t enemies. They’re neighbors. They wave to each other from across the street every single day. One moment you’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts. The next, you’re sitting in your car wiping away tears because you heard that song. People who haven’t lived here often don’t understand. Not because they don’t care. But because they don’t know this address exists. They assume you’ve moved on because they’ve moved forward. They wonder why anniversaries still matter. Why birthdays still sting. Why certain months seem heavier than others. They don’t realize that in the world of grief, time isn’t measured the same way anymore. It’s measured in “before.” And “after.” Sometimes they’ll tell you they miss the old you. The truth is... So do you. You miss the version of yourself who believed life made sense. Who assumed tomorrow was promised. Who never imagined memorizing the date your world fell apart. Grief doesn’t just ask you to miss someone. It asks you to become someone new. A person who carries both unbearable loss and unbelievable love. A person who can celebrate and mourn in the very same breath. A person who learns that healing doesn’t mean leaving someone behind. It means learning how to carry them differently. The hardest part of this new address isn’t living here. It’s wondering if anyone else knows how to find you. If you've found yourself living at this address too, I'd love to walk alongside you. Some days it feels like you’re standing on the front porch of a house no one visits. People wave from a distance. They send the occasional text. They mean well. But they don’t quite know how to walk up the path and sit beside you. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t have known this place existed either. Not before Garret. Not before Jack. Not before grief handed me a new set of keys and quietly whispered, “This is where you’ll live now.” It’s not where I wanted to be. But over the years, I’ve discovered something beautiful. There are neighbors here. Not the kind who borrow sugar or mow your lawn. The kind who recognize the look in your eyes before you’ve said a single word. The grieving mother who quietly reaches for your hand. The widow who nods because she understands. The friend who’s walked through loss and doesn’t rush your healing. The stranger who says, “Me too.” We find each other. We don’t need directions. We already know the way. And maybe that’s what hope looks like after loss. Not moving back to the life we once had. Not pretending this address doesn’t exist. But slowly making a home here. Planting flowers in the places we thought nothing could ever grow again. Leaving the porch light on for the next grieving heart who wanders down this road, wondering if they’re the only one living here. They’re not. Neither are you. Grief changed my address. Love is what keeps making it feel like home. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe [https://angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Twenty Years, My Sweet Boy

My sweet Garret, Twenty years. I stared at those words this morning, waiting for them to make sense. They still don’t. Twenty years ago, I kissed your soft cheeks, held your tiny hands, and whispered goodbye to a little boy who had only been here for one year. Today, I’ve spent more of my life missing you than I had the privilege of raising you. That’s a sentence I never imagined I would write. When you first went to Heaven, people told me time would help. I know they meant well. But they didn’t understand that time doesn’t lessen a mother’s love. It simply gives that love more places to live. You live in my heart now. You live in every butterfly that still catches my eye. You live in every grieving parent I have the honor of sitting beside. You live in every card I create, every book I write, every conversation I have with someone who believes they can’t survive another day. You have no idea how many people know your name. Or maybe you do. Maybe Heaven lets you peek. I hope so. I hope you know that your one beautiful year has changed thousands of lives. You were my first lesson in unconditional love. You became my greatest lesson in resilience. Not because losing you made me stronger. I still don’t like when people say that. Losing you broke me. But God met me there. Piece by piece, He taught me that broken things can still become beautiful. Not because the cracks disappear. Because His light has a way of finding them. Sometimes I wonder what you’d be doing now. Would you be taller than me? Would you have inherited your daddy’s laugh? Would you still let me hug you, or would you pull away with that embarrassed smile teenage boys have? Would you roll your eyes when I took too many pictures? Those questions used to make me cry. Sometimes they still do. But today... Today they make me smile, too. Because wondering about you means you’ve never stopped being part of my life. People often ask if I still grieve after twenty years. The answer is yes. Not because I’m trapped in the past. Because I love you in the present. There is a difference. I’ve laughed these last twenty years. I’ve fallen in love again. I’ve watched your sister grow into an incredible young woman. I’ve built a business because of you. I’ve become an author. A grief educator. A woman I don’t think I could have imagined twenty years ago. None of those things happened instead of loving you. They happened because loving you changed me forever. If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, it’s this: Love doesn’t end because life changes. It simply changes how it shows up. And every June, it finds me all over again. Do you know something I’ve never told you? For years, I hated June. I hated watching everyone celebrate sunshine while I counted another year without you. But somewhere along the way, June became something else. It’s still the month I lost you. It’s also the month Butterflies + Halos was born. The month I published my first book. The month I celebrate dreams I once thought had died with you. I think that’s one of God’s sweetest miracles. He didn’t erase my sorrow. He planted hope beside it. Both still bloom every June. And somehow... they don’t compete. That’s what twenty years has taught me. Grief and joy are not enemies. They are companions. They walk beside each other. Just like you’ve walked beside me all these years. I miss you, sweetheart. I always will. But I no longer measure my life by what I lost. I measure it by the love you’ve continued to give me. Thank you for making me your mom. It has been the greatest honor of my life. Forever one. Forever loved. Love, Mom To the parents reading this... If today is your own angelversary, whether it’s one year or twenty, I hope you know this: You don’t have to stop loving them to keep living. You don’t have to choose between remembering them and embracing the life still in front of you. Carry them. Talk about them. Laugh because of them. Cry because of them. Build because of them. Love because of them. Our children don’t ask us to stop living. If anything, I believe they quietly cheer us on. Twenty years later, I still carry my little boy. And somehow... he’s still carrying me, too. With love, Angie Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe [https://angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

The Problem With Grief Is That Nobody Else Can See Your Calendar

Dear Friend, One of the most frustrating things about grief is that nobody else can see your calendar. Not your actual calendar. Your grief calendar. The one you carry around in your head. The one filled with birthdays, death dates, diagnoses, anniversaries, hospital visits, phone calls, and moments that changed your life forever. Everyone else is busy planning vacations. You’re wondering if you can survive next Thursday. If you've ever felt like you're carrying a calendar nobody else can see, you're in good company here. Subscribe for honest conversations about grief, resilience, and finding your way forward. Everyone else sees June. You see that June. Everyone else sees Father’s Day. You see a son who should be here. Everyone else sees a random Tuesday. You remember exactly what happened on that Tuesday twenty years ago. The strange thing is, nobody means any harm. Most people aren’t forgetting. They simply aren’t carrying the same calendar. If I can be honest, sometimes we secretly want them to. We want someone else to walk into the room and say: “I know what day it is.” Not because we need a parade. Not because we need the world to stop spinning. Just because it feels exhausting being the keeper of the memories. The historian. The one responsible for remembering. The one carrying dates that nobody else writes down anymore. I think that’s one of the loneliest parts of long-term grief. Not the missing. The remembering. Because twenty years later, people assume you’ve adjusted. And in many ways, you have. You laugh. You travel. You build a life. You create new memories. You even experience joy again. But underneath all of that, there’s still a calendar running quietly in the background. Always. Every grieving person I know has one. The date nobody else remembers. The milestone nobody else sees coming. The week that suddenly feels heavier for reasons they can’t explain. Here’s what I’ve learned: Most people aren’t forgetting our loved ones. They’re simply living in a story that kept moving. While we became the guardians of a chapter they never had to memorize. That realization has softened me. Not completely. I’m still human. I still occasionally want to shake people by the shoulders and yell, “HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT DAY THIS IS?” But I’ve learned something important. Their forgetting is usually not a measure of their love. It’s a measure of their distance from the loss. Those are not the same thing. So when those invisible dates show up, I’ve stopped waiting for other people to acknowledge them. I acknowledge them. I light the candle. I tell the story. I say the name. I buy the cupcake. I visit the grave. I take the walk. I do whatever helps me honor the life that mattered. Because grief has taught me something surprising: The responsibility of remembering isn’t a burden. It’s a privilege. A heartbreaking privilege, yes. But a privilege nonetheless. And while nobody else can see my calendar... I can. And that’s enough. Most days, anyway. The other days, I reserve the right to roll my eyes dramatically and eat dessert first. Grace and grit, friends. Both are required. If this letter resonated with you, I'd love for you to join me here at Grace & Grit Letters. Every week, I share honest reflections on grief, resilience, faith, second chances, and the messy beauty of rebuilding a life after loss. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe [https://angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

The Loneliness of Being the One Who Remembers

As Garret’s 21st birthday approaches, I’ve found myself wrestling with something I don’t know how to explain to the people around me. Not because they don’t care. Most of them do. Not because they aren’t supportive. They are. But because there are some experiences in life that can only be understood by the people who lived them beside you. Twenty-one. Twenty years gone. Those numbers have been sitting heavily on my heart lately. For most people, June is simply another month on the calendar. Summer plans are being made. Father’s Day is approaching. People are scheduling barbecues, vacations, and weekends at the lake. Life continues to move forward exactly as it should. And yet, every year when June arrives, I find myself standing in two worlds at once. There is the life I have now—the one I have worked hard to build after unimaginable loss. The life filled with new memories, new traditions, new relationships, and people who love me deeply. Then there is the life that existed before. The life where Garret was here. The life where Jack was here. The life where our future looked entirely different than the one that unfolded. The older I get, the more I realize that one of the hardest parts of grief isn’t just missing the person who died. It’s missing the people who remember them the way you do. Lately, I’ve been missing Jack in a way that feels different than usual. Not because I wish my current life were different. Not because I haven’t found happiness again. But because Jack was the only other person who knew exactly what these milestones meant. He was Garret’s dad. He was the only person who knew what it felt like to hold our son, dream about his future, and imagine the man he would become. When Garret died, we carried that grief together. We wondered together. We remembered together. We asked all the impossible questions together. Would he have played sports? Would he have gone to college? Would he have been tall like his dad? What would his laugh sound like today? Now those questions belong mostly to me. Graci was so young when Garret died. She knows his story. She loves her brother. She understands his importance in our family. But she doesn’t carry the memories. She couldn’t. She was simply too little. And so, as the years pass, I sometimes find myself feeling like the keeper of something precious that fewer and fewer people can truly see. I carry memories that exist nowhere else. I carry stories that only a handful of people remember. I carry a version of our family that disappeared long ago. There is a loneliness in that. A quiet loneliness that has nothing to do with being surrounded by people. I am surrounded by wonderful people. The loneliness comes from knowing that nobody else feels June the way I do. Nobody else’s heart begins counting the days to Garret’s birthday. Nobody else automatically notices that this would have been his 20th year. Nobody else feels the significance of twenty years gone and twenty-one years imagined. And how could they? Their lives kept moving. Mine did too. At least on the outside. But grief has a strange relationship with time. For those who have never experienced profound loss, time often feels linear. One year becomes five. Five becomes ten. Ten becomes twenty. For those of us whose worlds stopped in an instant, time feels different. Part of you moves forward. Part of you stays behind. Part of you learns how to laugh again. Part of you remains forever connected to the moment everything changed. Twenty years later, I can tell you that grief softens. It changes shape. It becomes more familiar. But it never completely leaves. Especially during milestone years. Especially when your child should be turning twenty-one. Especially when the person who would have understood your heartbreak isn’t here either. What I find myself struggling with this year is figuring out how to honor Garret while also honoring the life I’ve built. I don’t think people talk enough about this part. The balancing act of loving the people who are gone while fully loving the people who are here. The tension between remembering and living. The challenge of wanting space for reflection when everyone else simply sees another date on the calendar. Father’s Day falls on Garret’s birthday this year. People want to celebrate. People want to gather. People want to make plans. And I find myself wondering how to explain that I may not want to participate. Or that I might participate differently. That I might attend part of an event but not stay for the celebration afterward. That I might need quiet instead of company. Reflection instead of distraction. Not because I’m sad. Not because I’m ungrateful. But because some days deserve space. Some dates deserve to be felt. Some memories deserve more than squeezing them into the margins of an already busy day. The truth is, I am still figuring this out. I am still learning how to integrate the mother I was, the wife I was, and the woman I am today. I am still learning how to honor Garret’s life without feeling guilty for living mine. I am still learning that I don’t need permission to step away, reflect, remember, or grieve. Maybe that’s what this season is teaching me. That I don’t have to choose between my past and my present. I can love them both. I can celebrate the life I’ve built while still honoring the life I lost. I can show up when it feels right and step back when it doesn’t. And perhaps most importantly, I can stop trying to explain the significance of these dates to people who have never lived them. Because the people who understand won’t need an explanation. And the people who don’t aren’t failing me. They’re simply fortunate enough to have never watched their world stop turning. Twenty years later, mine is moving again. But some days, especially in June, I still feel the place where it broke. And maybe that isn’t something to fix. Maybe it’s simply another way of loving someone who should still be here. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe [https://angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

June Arrives Before the Calendar Says It Does

Dear friend, Some months arrive quietly. June is not one of them. For me, June arrives before the calendar ever turns. It settles into my chest weeks beforehand. It shows up in little moments when I least expect it. A date catches my eye. A memory surfaces. A song plays. And suddenly, I’m reminded that this month carries pieces of my story that have shaped everything that came after. This June marks what would have been my son Garret’s 21st birthday. His golden birthday. And on June 27th, it will be 20 years since he left this earth. Twenty years. Even writing that feels strange. Because grief does something funny with time. It can make twenty years feel like yesterday and yesterday feel like twenty years ago. I remember the early years when every milestone felt impossible. The first birthday. The first Christmas. The first anniversary. The first time the world seemed to move forward while I was still standing in the rubble. Back then, I thought healing meant grief would get smaller. What I’ve learned instead is that grief changes shape. Love changes shape too. But neither one disappears. People sometimes ask how I still talk about Garret after all these years. My answer is simple. Because he’s still my son. Time doesn’t change that. I didn’t stop being his mom because the calendar kept turning. If anything, I’ve learned that one of the greatest gifts we can give the people we’ve lost is refusing to stop saying their names. Garret. There it is. His name belongs in the room. His life mattered. His story mattered. And the love I have for him didn’t end twenty years ago. It simply had to find a different place to go. I think that’s part of why Butterflies + Halos exists. People often assume I started a greeting card business because I love cards. And I do. But the deeper truth is that I started writing because grief showed me how desperately people want to feel seen. How often they sit alone with heartbreak while everyone around them searches for the perfect words. How many grieving people quietly wonder if anyone remembers. So I started creating the words I wish more people would say. The honest words. The awkward words. The comforting words. The “I don’t know what to do, but I’m here” words. Because sometimes presence matters more than perfection. Actually, most of the time it does. Over the years, I’ve found my own ways to keep Garret’s memory alive. Sometimes it’s through stories. Sometimes it’s through photographs. Sometimes it’s through tears. Sometimes it’s through laughter. And sometimes it’s through creating things that help other people survive what they never wanted to face. That’s really what hope has become for me. Not the absence of grief. Not moving on. Not pretending everything worked out the way I wanted. Hope is learning that love continues even after loss. Hope is carrying someone forward. Hope is choosing to build something beautiful from something that broke your heart. And maybe that’s why June feels both heavy and sacred. Because every year it reminds me of two things: How deeply I loved. And how deeply I was loved. If you’re carrying someone with you this month, I hope you’ll give yourself permission to say their name. Tell their stories. Light the candle. Look through the photos. Share the memory. Laugh when something funny comes to mind. Cry if you need to. There is no expiration date on love. And there is certainly no expiration date on remembrance. Twenty years later, I still say his name. Garret. And I always will. With grace and grit, Angie "If this letter resonated with you, feel free to share it with someone carrying grief too. You never know who may need the reminder that love continues." Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe [https://angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]