For the Ones Who Stay in Our Bones: Losing My Grandma

Trigger Warning: This post includes reflections on losing a loved one — in particular, the loss of a grandmother. Please read gently and give yourself grace as you do.

I always thought grief would feel like a moment — a single goodbye, a single ache. But it turns out grief is a thousand quiet moments after that. It’s walking past the phone and remembering there’s no one to call. It’s seeing purple flowers bloom and whispering, “You’d love these.” It’s realizing that someone who felt permanent has become a memory you carry instead of a person you can hold.

When my grandma died, it felt like the world shifted — just slightly, but permanently. Everything still looked the same, but nothing felt the same.

My grandma was my best friend. I don’t say that lightly — she really was. She was the one I called when I needed help in the kitchen, when I couldn’t decide what to wear, when I just wanted to talk about nothing at all. She was my safe place, my soft landing, my home away from home.

When I was little, I’d spend hours at her house baking cookies, reading books, and talking about everything and nothing. As I got older, not much changed — except that now the conversations were deeper. She was the one I went to for advice, for prayer, for reassurance when life felt uncertain.

We shared a pew on Sunday mornings — me tucked beside her while Grandpa ushered. We’d whisper about the hymns, doodle on bulletins, and exchange those little knowing smiles that only the two of us understood. And when the music swelled, her faith did too. She taught me to believe long before I ever had words for it.

The day she died, I remember feeling both full and hollow all at once. Full — because I had a lifetime of memories, laughter, and love that no one could take from me. Hollow — because every future memory would be without her.

People tell you to hold on to the good times, and I do. But they never tell you how much it hurts to hold them — how sharp they can feel when you can’t make new ones.

I miss her voice most. That steady, calm tone that could make chaos feel safe. Sometimes I swear I still hear it — not audibly, but in the way I talk to myself now. In the words I use with my son. In the recipes I follow, the faith I practice, the kindness I try to lead with.

She’s in all of it. In me.

Being a “grandma’s girl” in a world without a grandma is a kind of ache that never leaves. But it’s also a kind of grace — because love like that doesn’t disappear; it just moves.

It moves into the way I see the world. It moves into the purple flowers, the butterflies, the warm beams of light that feel a little too perfectly timed. It moves into the prayers I whisper and the stories I tell my son about the woman who helped shape me into who I am.

Sometimes I still talk to her — out loud, in the car, or when the house is quiet. And maybe that’s faith in its purest form — believing that love is not bound by breath or distance or time.

Losing her didn’t just make me miss her; it made me different. I’m softer now. More tender toward the ordinary. I hug a little longer, speak a little slower, forgive a little easier. Because she showed me what gentle strength looks like — and now I want to live in a way that would make her proud.

Grief has a way of leaving you cracked open, but sometimes that’s where the light gets in. And maybe that’s the legacy of love — not perfection, but presence. Not grand gestures, but quiet faithfulness.

I still look for her — in the small things. And every time I find her there, I feel that familiar warmth rise again. It’s not the same as before, but it’s enough. Because love like hers never really leaves; it just changes form.

And one day, when heaven feels a little closer, I know I’ll see her again —smiling that knowing smile, singing How Great Thou Art, and welcoming me home.

♡♡♡

Author’s Note:

For my Grandma —the keeper of secrets and snacks, the one who taught me faith and laughter, and the woman whose love still lives in every part of me.

If you’ve lost someone who was your person — your safe place, your constant — I hope you know this: The ache you feel is love, still alive. It doesn’t mean you’re stuck. It means you were lucky enough to have had something worth missing.

And in that missing, you honor them — every single day.