Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson Podcast

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]

Grief Teaches You What Matters and Who Shows Up

“Grief teaches you two things: what matters and who shows up.Both lists can be surprising.” I wrote that in a matter of seconds. But if I’m honest…it took years to understand. Because grief doesn’t just break your heart.It rearranges your entire life without asking permission first. It changes what you care about.It changes what you tolerate.And maybe most unexpectedly of all…it changes how you see people. Before loss, I think many of us move through life believing certain things matter more than they actually do. We stress over appearances.Over timelines.Over keeping everyone happy.Over things that feel urgent until life reminds us what truly is. And grief has a way of stripping all of that down to the studs. Suddenly, you realize how little small talk matters when your world is falling apart. You realize how precious time is.How sacred presence is.How valuable honesty becomes. You stop craving surface-level relationships and start longing for depth.For realness.For people who can sit in the uncomfortable without trying to rush you out of it. Loss has a way of clearing out the unnecessary. It becomes a brutal editor of priorities. And then there are the people. Whew. No one really prepares you for that part. Because grief doesn’t just reveal your pain…it reveals your people. Some people you thought would stay forever quietly drift away. Not always because they’re cruel.Sometimes because they’re uncomfortable.Sometimes because they don’t know what to say.Sometimes because your grief reminds them life can change in an instant, and that reality feels too heavy to hold. Still… it hurts. It hurts when the people you expected to show up the loudest become silent. It hurts when friendships shift.When invitations stop coming.When your pain becomes too inconvenient for people who only knew how to love you in lighter seasons. Grief has a way of teaching you who can hold space… and who can only hold conversations. That lesson alone can change you. But then something unexpected happens too. The quiet people show up. The ones you didn’t necessarily predict. The acquaintance who checks in every anniversary.The friend who remembers your person’s name.The one who sends a simple “thinking of you” text without needing a response.The people who don’t try to fix your grief… they just sit beside it. Those people become sacred. Because when your life falls apart, you stop measuring relationships by popularity or history. You start measuring them by presence. Who stayed?Who remembered?Who made space for your pain without making you feel guilty for carrying it? Those are the people grief teaches you to hold onto. And honestly?Grief also changes how you show up for others. Once you’ve lived through devastating loss, you begin to notice pain differently. You remember the dates.You send the text.You sit longer in hard conversations.You stop trying to tie everything up with silver ribbons and neat little phrases. Because you know some wounds don’t need solutions.They need witnesses. That may be one of the hardest and most beautiful things grief teaches us. Not just what matters… But how to matter. And while I wish so many of us never had to learn these lessons the hard way, I will say this: The people who stay soft with you during grief?The people who continue saying your loved one’s name?The people who let you be fully honest about your pain without trying to edit it? Those are your people. Not the loudest ones.Not the most performative ones.Not always even the ones you expected. Just the real ones. And grief, strangely enough, becomes the thing that finally helps you see them clearly. 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]

To the Ones Mother’s Day Forgot (But Heaven Never Did)

Dear You, Yes, you. The one who feels a lump in your throat when you see the flowers lined up at the store…The one who scrolls past the brunch photos a little faster than usual…The one who smiles for others, but carries something heavier underneath. This letter is for you. For the mother who had to say goodbye far too soon—You are still a mother.Not “were.” Not “almost.” Not “used to be.”You are a mother in the deepest, fiercest, most forever kind of way. Love like yours doesn’t disappear just because the world can’t see where it lands anymore. For the daughter who no longer has her mom to call—You are still her girl.Still shaped by her voice, her laugh, her way of doing things.Still carrying pieces of her in the way you love, the way you show up, the way you keep going. Death may have changed your relationship…But it did not erase it. For the woman who longed to be a mother, but life had other plans—Your grief is real.Your longing is sacred.And your capacity to love? Still overflowing, still worthy, still seen. Motherhood is not only defined by what the world can measure.Sometimes it lives quietly in the spaces no one applauds. And for all the in-between places—The strained relationships.The complicated stories.The roles you had to take on too soon…or never got to fully step into. You are not forgotten here. Mother’s Day can be beautiful.And it can be brutal.Sometimes, it’s both in the same breath. So if today feels heavy, you don’t need to fix it.You don’t need to force gratitude or wrap your grief in a bow. You are allowed to feel what you feel. But I want you to know this— You are seen.Not in a passing, polite way…But in a deep, soul-level, I recognize that ache in you kind of way. Your love still matters.Your story still counts.Your person—your child, your mom, your dream—is still part of you. Always. So today, if the world feels loud with celebration…You are allowed to move quietly. Light the candle.Say their name.Hold the memory.Or simply sit and breathe through the waves as they come. There is no wrong way to carry love like this. And just in case no one has said it to you in a way that truly lands— You are still a mother.You are still a daughter.You are still deeply, undeniably loved. And you always will be. With you, in all of it,Angie 🤍 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]

Some Rooms Love Volume More Than Value

There was a season when I paid to be in a room I thought might change everything. You know the kind of room I mean. A place filled with smart women, bold promises, strategy sessions, bright graphics, motivational language, and the steady hum of people becoming “more.” More visible. More successful. More connected. More known. And to be fair, some of that was true. I learned things there. I met good people there. I made friendships I genuinely valued. I was grateful for the season. But when my membership ended, something else became clear. Some connections were tied to the container. Some support was tied to access. Some community was only community while the monthly payment cleared. That realization stung more than I expected. Not because anyone owed me anything. They didn’t. But because many of us walk into rooms hoping for more than tactics. We hope for belonging. We hope to be known. We hope that if we show up sincerely, something lasting will grow. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes the room simply wasn’t built for the kind of work you carry. That was the deeper truth I had to face. My work lives in grief. Not in the polished version of grief people post once a year with a candle emoji and a quote about heaven. I mean the real grief. The middle-of-the-night grief.The can’t-focus grief.The empty-chair grief.The birthday-without-them grief.The “I don’t know how to keep going but I am trying” grief. That kind of work doesn’t always translate in business circles built on visibility, speed, and momentum. Grief work is slower. It is sacred. It happens in messages no one sees. In cards sent quietly. In conversations people remember for years. In giving language to pain people thought they had to carry alone. It is hard to turn holy work into highlight reels. And maybe that’s why I sometimes felt unseen. I am not the loudest person in the room. I do not need to announce every move, every win, every coffee meeting, every breakthrough, every breath I took before noon. Some women are gifted at visibility. I respect that. But visibility and value are not the same thing. Noise and impact are not twins. Attention and legacy are not interchangeable. That was one of the greatest lessons I carried out of that season. I also learned this: Not every room that helped you is meant to hold you forever. Some rooms teach.Some rooms stretch.Some rooms reveal what you no longer need.Some rooms show you where you do not belong so you can return to where you do. And I know where my people are now. They are in the grief world. They are the ones carrying invisible weights. They are the helpers, the heartbroken, the trying-again people, the women rebuilding after loss, the ones who need honesty more than hype. They do not need me to be louder. They need me to be real. That, I can do. So if you’ve ever felt overlooked in a room that celebrates volume, hear this: You are not less because you are quieter. You are not failing because you are deeper. You are not behind because your work cannot be measured in applause. Some seeds grow best underground before anyone sees the bloom. These days, I’m less interested in being noticed by crowded rooms. I’m more interested in being useful in sacred ones. And if a room only knows how to honor noise? Let it echo without you. 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]

I’m Trying…(And Somehow, That Has to Be Enough)

Dear You, I heard you the other day.Not in a grand speech or a perfectly worded sentence—but in something far more honest. You said, “I’m trying.” And oh…how that landed. Because those two words?They don’t come from a place of ease.They come from the trenches.From the mornings where your body wakes up,but your heart isn’t quite sure it wants to follow. “I’m trying” is not small.It’s not weak.It’s not something to gloss over or fix. It is everything. It’s trying to swing your legs out of bedwhen grief has wrapped itself around your ankles. It’s trying to showerwhen even the thought of water feels like too much. It’s trying to answer a text,to show up,to breathe through another wavethat no one else can see crashing over you. It’s trying to existin a world that kept spinningwhen yours came to a screeching, heartbreaking halt. And for the moms—the ones carrying a child in their heart instead of their arms—“I’m trying” is sacred ground. Because you are trying to motherin a way the world doesn’t always understand. You are trying to remember themand survive without themin the same breath. You are trying to make senseof something that will never make sense. And somehow…you’re still here. That matters more than you know. But here’s the quiet truth no one says out loud enough: We are all trying. In our own ways.In our own messes.In our own invisible battles. Some are trying to hold a marriage together.Some are trying to find themselves again.Some are trying to smile through things they haven’t named yet.Some are just trying to get through the daywithout falling apart in the middle of the grocery store aisle. This life—this wild, unpredictable, beautifully broken life—can feel like a fishbowl sometimes. Everyone circling.Everyone watching.Everyone assuming we’re finebecause we’re still moving. But movement doesn’t mean ease.And breathing doesn’t mean you’re not hurting. Sometimes it just means…you’re trying. So if today all you did was try—try to get up,try to function,try to keep going— I need you to hear this: That counts. That is brave.That is worthy.That is enough for today. Not forever.Not perfectly.Just for today. Tomorrow, you’ll try again.Maybe a little differently.Maybe a little stronger.Or maybe just the same. And that’s okay. Because trying is not the absence of struggle—it’s proof that something inside youis still choosing to stay. And that…that is a quiet kind of resiliencethe world doesn’t applaud enough. But I see it. I see you. Still here.Still breathing.Still trying. And for today, my friend…that is more than enough. With you in the trying, always. 🤍 If these letters feel like something you need in your life right now…you’re always welcome here. Join me 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]