Latest / The Everyday Edit: Lifestyle, Beauty, Home & Well-Being / Grief in the Kitchen: How to Keep Going When Everything Hurts | The Everyday Edit
Transcript
- You dropped a mug this morning and didn’t even look down to see if it shattered. You just kept walking, because stopping felt like falling apart completely. Let’s breathe into this. Really. Take that breath with me. I want you to imagine your kitchen counter right now. Maybe there are dishes waiting to be washed, or mail piled neatly to one side, or just the quiet hum of the refrigerator doing its job while your mind is screaming. We often talk about grief as this massive, overwhelming wave that knocks us off our feet. And yes, sometimes it does. But most days, grief isn’t a wave. It’s gravity. It’s the heavy, invisible weight that makes lifting a spoon feel like lifting a brick. It’s the exhaustion of having to perform the basic mechanics of being alive when your soul feels like it’s packing its bags to leave. I’m talking to you today because I know you’re tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The deep, marrow-level tiredness of holding yourself together by sheer willpower while everything inside you wants to unravel. You might be sitting at your desk, staring at a spreadsheet that no longer matters. Or you might be folding laundry, trying to find normalcy in the symmetry of socks. Whatever routine you’re clinging to, I want you to know that it’s okay if it’s messy. It’s okay if you’re burning the toast. It’s okay if you’re crying in the shower and pretending you just have soap in your eyes. Grief doesn’t care about your schedule. And neither should you. As an architect, I used to believe that structure was the answer to chaos. That if I could design the perfect room, with the right light and the right flow, life would make sense. But grief taught me something different. Grief showed me that routines aren’t walls to keep the pain out. They are bridges. They are the fragile, beautiful threads that connect us to who we were before the loss, and to who we are becoming now. Think about the last time you made coffee. The sound of the grinder, the smell of the beans, the warmth of the ceramic against your palm. These small rituals are anchors. They don’t fix the hole in your chest, but they give your hands something to do while your heart catches up. When I lost my father, I couldn’t stop cleaning. I scrubbed baseboards until my knuckles bled. I thought if I could just keep the house spotless, I could keep myself from crumbling. But what I really needed wasn’t perfection. I needed permission to be imperfect. I needed to understand that maintaining a routine doesn’t mean ignoring your feelings. It means creating a container for them. A safe space where you can feel the ache without letting it consume every inch of your day. So, look at your daily habits. What brings you comfort? What feels like a lie? Be honest with yourself. If brushing your teeth feels too much, skip it. If making your bed gives you a tiny spark of control, do it twice. Your routine is yours alone. It doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s survival guide. What does 'enough' look like for you? This is the question I ask myself every single morning. In a world that demands productivity, efficiency, and constant growth, grief asks for nothing. It asks for presence. It asks for stillness. And yet, we are terrified of stillness because that’s where the thoughts get loud. That’s where the memories hit us like a truck. So we fill the silence with noise. With podcasts, with scrolling, with work. We try to outrun the sadness. But running only exhausts us further. I remember one Tuesday, three months after the funeral. I had planned to write a chapter of my book. Instead, I sat on my living room floor and watched dust motes dance in the sunlight. I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. For forty-five minutes, I just existed. And in that emptiness, I found a strange kind of peace. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t joy. It was relief. Relief from the pressure to be okay. Relief from the expectation that I should have moved on. Grief has no timeline. There is no deadline for healing. So, let go of the idea that you need to achieve anything today. Let ‘enough’ be enough. If you survived today, you won. If you ate a meal, you won. If you breathed through the panic attack, you won. Stop keeping score. Start keeping company with yourself. There is a specific kind of beauty in the small mercies of daily life. The way the sun hits the kitchen table at 4 PM. The smell of rain on hot pavement. The text from a friend that says, 'Thinking of you,' with no expectation of a reply. These moments are not distractions from your grief. They are evidence that life is still happening. That you are still here. That you are still capable of feeling pleasure, even if it’s fleeting. Don’t dismiss these moments as trivial. They are lifelines. I’ve learned to curate my environment with intention, not just for aesthetics, but for emotional safety. Soft lighting. Clean sheets. A favorite song playing softly in the background. These aren’t indulgences. They are necessities. When your internal world is chaotic, your external world needs to be calm. Create a sanctuary. It doesn’t have to be large. It can be a corner of your bedroom, a chair by the window, a walk around the block. Find the spaces that hold you gently. And when you enter them, leave the guilt at the door. You are allowed to seek comfort. You are allowed to protect your energy. Grief drains your battery faster than anything else. So charge it however you can. Read a book. Watch a silly movie. Call a friend who listens more than she talks. Do whatever restores you, even if it feels selfish. It’s not selfish. It’s survival. Let’s talk about pause. Not the pause between meetings, or the break in conversation. I mean the deep, restorative pause. The kind that allows your nervous system to reset. When we are grieving, our bodies are stuck in fight-or-flight mode. We are constantly bracing for impact. But we can teach our bodies that it’s safe to rest. How? By slowing down. By moving through your day with deliberate slowness. Pour your water slowly. Walk slowly. Speak slowly. Notice the texture of your clothes. Feel the ground beneath your feet. This isn’t mindfulness for the sake of trending spirituality. It’s grounding for the sake of staying sane. I used to rush through everything. I thought speed was a virtue. Now, I know that slowness is a form of self-respect. When you slow down, you give yourself permission to feel. You stop numbing out. You start inhabiting your life, even the painful parts. And that is where true healing begins. Not in escaping the pain, but in making room for it. Make room for the tears. Make room for the anger. Make room for the confusion. Your emotions are valid. They are not obstacles to your routine. They are part of the rhythm. So, let your day unfold at its own pace. If you need to stop, stop. If you need to cry, cry. If you need to stare at the wall, stare. You are not falling behind. You are exactly where you need to be. Keep it simple, keep it true. This is my mantra, especially on the hard days. When grief makes everything complicated, simplify. Strip away the non-essentials. What do you actually need right now? Water? Food? Sleep? Connection? Focus on those things. Ignore the rest. The emails can wait. The Instagram feed can fade. The expectations of others can be set aside. This is not about neglecting responsibility. It’s about prioritizing your humanity. You are a person, not a machine. Machines don’t grieve. People do. And people need grace. Grace looks like forgiving yourself for not being productive. Grace looks like accepting help when it’s offered. Grace looks like saying no to plans you don’t have the energy for. It looks like eating cereal for dinner because cooking feels impossible. All of these acts are brave. They are declarations that you matter. That your well-being matters. That your healing matters. So, protect your peace fiercely. Guard your energy jealously. You are carrying a heavy load. Give yourself credit for every step. Even the small ones. Especially the small ones. Because those steps add up. They build a new path. One that is different from the old one, but still leads forward. Still leads home. To yourself. I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re still trying. Keep going, one breath at a time. I’ll see you in the next one. Love always.