Life, Loss, and the Gentle Reminder to Live Fully

There are moments in life that quietly rearrange you.

Not with drama. Not with answers. But with a kind of stillness that asks you to listen.

Recently, I travelled to Montreal to celebrate the life of my Auntie Marie, who passed away. And then, as if the universe wanted to make sure the lesson had space to land, we were snowed in. Flights cancelled. Plans paused. Days stretched wide with nowhere to rush to and nowhere to escape to.

Grief already slows time, but forced stillness does something else entirely. It removes the illusion of urgency. It softens the edges. It brings you back into your body and into the room you are actually in.

What unfolded in those days was tender and sad, yes. But it was also deeply loving. Stories were shared. Laughter appeared where tears had just been. Ordinary moments took on a sacred quality, as they so often do when we allow ourselves to really be present.

Loss has a way of clarifying things.

It strips away the noise. The performative busyness. The things we tell ourselves matter, but somehow never do when we are faced with what is real.

Here is what loss always teaches me

Life is fragile.
Love is everything.
And none of us are promised a specific number of days.

I don’t say that in a fear based or dramatic way. I say it as an invitation. A quiet wake up call that doesn’t shout, but lingers.

Hold the people you love a little longer.
Say the thing you keep rehearsing in your head.
Eat the good bread.
Stop assuming there will be a better time later.

When someone we love dies, perspective shifts.

The things we stress about lose their grip.
Old grudges feel unbearably heavy.
The pressure to have everything figured out fades.

What remains is clarity.

A truth I keep returning to

So many of us are waiting for life to feel more certain before we fully step into it.

Waiting to feel ready.
Waiting for things to calm down.
Waiting for the right season, the right body, the right confidence, the right version of ourselves.

But life does not wait for readiness.

It unfolds in real time, unfinished and imperfect. And loving fully, laughing loudly, and choosing joy are not rewards for getting it right. They are practices. Ones we return to again and again.

Even in grief. Especially in the middle of ordinary days.

Auntie Marie lived.

She loved. She laughed. She made people feel seen. She brought warmth into rooms without trying to.

That kind of legacy is not built through productivity or achievement. It is built through presence.

And perhaps that is what so many of us are longing for right now. Not more doing. Not more certainty. But more aliveness inside our actual lives.

A gentle nudge, if you are open to it

Tell the people you love that you love them. Do the thing you keep postponing because it feels inconvenient. Wear the outfit. Book the coffee. Say yes more often than no, when it feels aligned.

Not because life is short in a dramatic way. But because life is precious in a very real, grounded one.

You are allowed to live fully even while grieving. You are allowed to feel joy without guilt. You are allowed to let love be louder than fear.

You do not have to earn a meaningful life. You are already in one.

Sometimes the work is not about becoming someone new. It is about remembering what already matters.

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.” Thomas Campbell

If you feel called to sit with this, you might reflect on these questions

If I truly let myself remember that nothing is guaranteed, how would I live this week differently?

Who or what deserves a little more love from me right now?

Thank you for being here. Thank you for witnessing this reflection.

Go love boldly. Go live honestly. And please do not save your joy for someday.

With so much love, Melissa