Tina and I went to the gym on Friday, and I felt something shift back into place.
Not because everything is suddenly easy, or because grief politely packed its bags and left. More like my body remembered it still belongs to me. Breath in, breath out. One rep, one step, one honest effort at a time. The simple rhythm of movement has a way of telling the truth without speeches.
And here is the thing, I’m carrying two worlds right now.
On Tuesday, we went to a funeral. Another goodbye. Another reminder that life does not ask permission before it changes the rules. I have lost four friends, and each loss has its own weight, its own tone, its own echo. There are moments where it feels surreal, like my mind is still trying to catch up to the fact that they are really gone.
So yes, grief is in the room.
And still, life is good.
Not in the cheesy, pretend-everything-is-fine way. In the real way. The grounded way. The way that says, “This hurts, and there is still beauty here.” The way that says, “I can miss them, and still be grateful for breath, for love, for the chance to keep showing up.”
Friday at the gym, Tina came with me. That matters more than I can properly explain. She wants to do longer rides with me. Longer roads, more shared miles, more of that quiet, meditative rhythm you can only find when the world fades into the background and it is just you, the bike, and the open sky.
I love that she wants to join me in that.
Also, it means my “easy pace” is about to get audited. And Tina does not mess around with audits.
In the space between Friday and Tuesday, between sweat and sorrow, I’ve been pondering something that feels like a spiritual assignment: What does God want of me in this season? What are the opportunities for me to grow?
The answer keeps landing with surprising simplicity.
Keep on loving, and share that love even more.
Not later. Not when I feel more ready. Not when life calms down and everything is tidy. Now. Love louder. Love sooner. Love without waiting for the perfect moment, because the perfect moment is mostly a story we tell ourselves when we’re afraid.
I don’t feel like I’m being asked to become harder. If anything, I feel invited to become softer and braver at the same time. Less busy. Less guarded. More present. More willing to say what matters while there is still time to say it.
The funeral on Tuesday did not make me want to quit on life. It made me want to live it more intentionally.
It made me want to call the people I love instead of assuming there will be time.
It made me want to stop rationing kindness.
It made me want to show up fully, even on days when my heart is heavy.
So if you are walking through your own losses, I’ll say this as plainly as I can: grief does not mean life is bad. It means love was real.
And if love was real, then the best way to honour it is to keep loving.
That’s where I’m at.
Tina and I went to the gym on Friday.
We attended a funeral on Tuesday.
I’m still here.
I still get to choose.
I choose love.
