life

Hi, I’m Kayla, and…

Grief is odd. It’s weird and uncomfortable but also probably one of the most natural processes humans go through. There’s no right path, wading the waters of loss. That’s all to say that grief is something I was never prepared to walk in. Is anyone? There’s no book warning people what they’re about to step into when they lose a person. (False: I’m sure there are a number of books… but I sure as hell didn’t touch one prior to loss.)

I think when I meet someone new, there’s a subconscious desire to be known and know them, like not just the surface stuff. I mean, I feel that way anyway. I genuinely like getting to know WHO people are and where they came from and how they turned out this way… (I’m generally that chatty uber passenger, too.)

So when I meet people, I think the inner me, not showing her true cards, wants the new person to know Kelsey, my sister, the one who has been gone for almost three years, the one who it’s physically impossible to meet now… that’s who I’d love to introduce most people to when we’ve just met. Is that odd?

Or no? I don’t know. Someone who was so part of my personal history, my memories, and admirations, that’s who I’d like to introduce people to when they meet me… and it stings that my heart and mind work this way.

We all have our Scarlett letters, curses set on us by outside forces, or badges of honor, the things we proudly display with our chest puffed up. Right? Some battle inside demons and Evil would love for these letters to consume your identity and cripple you with fear. I don’t want to live that way.

So I genuinely try not to, and I wade through the sometimes muddy waters of grief. I talk about Kelsey when it seems fitting. That part of me and our story isn’t shelved. The icky parts of life can often be used to help others in their muddy waters, too. So I hope you’ll keep “speaking your truth.” That’s what all the cool kids say… but I see it… don’t hold part of you back because you’re sad or scared or… or… or… that’s what I’d tell myself anyway.

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