Shannon's Corner

  Anniversaries have a way of arriving quietly and then suddenly filling the room. The anniversary of my mom’s death doesn’t always come with fresh tears or sharp pain. Sometimes it arrives as a soft ache. Other times, as gratitude. And sometimes, as a strange mix of both—love and loss holding hands in ways they never did before. This is one of the lesser-talked-about truths of grief: Grief doesn’t only come from loss. It also comes from   changed connections . When someone we love dies, the relationship doesn’t disappear—it transforms. The way we relate, remember, talk to, and carry that person changes. And that change itself is something we grieve. Many of us were taught—directly or indirectly—that grief has a timeline. That “doing well” means moving on, being strong, or finding closure. But grief doesn’t ask to be solved. It asks to be   tended . Grieving well doesn’t mean the pain goes away. It means we allow grief to have its proper place without letting it harden us...

  Valentine’s Day has a way of shining a bright light on relationships. Hearts appear in store windows, social feeds fill with roses and declarations, and the word   love   becomes unavoidable. For some, this day feels tender and affirming. For others, it can stir grief, loneliness, or a quiet sense of disconnection. In times of life transition, Valentine’s Day often presses a deeper question to the surface:  Who walks with me now? Transitions change our relationships. Some people remain steady companions. Others drift away—not always out of conflict, but because seasons shift. Roles change. Capacity changes. Sometimes   we   change. You may find yourself asking: ·         Who do I reach for now when things feel heavy? ·         Who truly sees me in this season? ·         Who feels safe to walk alongside the version of me that is still becoming? These ar...

  After the storm passes, there is often a sense of relief. The wind has died down. The urgency has eased.  The world feels quieter. And yet—everything is still changed. The snow remains. In some places, it is pristine and brilliant, catching the light and inviting awe. In other places, it is smudged and dirty, marked by footprints, plows, and what the storm stirred up along the way. Both are true. Both belong. This is often what life transitions feel like after the initial upheaval. The decision has been made. The ending has happened. The diagnosis, loss, move, career shift, or identity change is no longer theoretical—it has arrived and moved through. But what remains is not nothing. What remains is a covering. The In-Between Is Not Empty Snow covers the ground completely. It doesn’t ask the earth to perform. It doesn’t demand immediate results. It simply  rests there . Transitions often invite us into a similar season—one that our productivity-driven culture doesn’t alw...