I was really hoping December would feel different this year. I know we’re often our own worst enemies, and that part of healing is getting out of our own heads, but grief has a way of pulling you back into yourself whether you want it to or not. This will be the fourth Christmas without my son. My mind doesn’t always hold onto the exact dates anymore, and honestly, I choose not to look them up. What I do remember is this: he was 24, his name was Bailey, and he died three days before Christmas. That memory comes back whether I invite it or not.

Sometimes I wonder if the world has always been this chaotic, or if the internet just puts every bit of ugliness right in our faces. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it adds a layer to everything I’m already carrying.

A few months ago, I started this blog. I thought maybe it would give me an outlet. But then I couldn’t figure out how to use the damn thing, so I dropped it. This morning, after what felt like forever and a day, I finally figured out how to get back in. So here I am, trying again.

I don’t care if anyone reads this. I’m not writing it for an audience. I’m writing because I need somewhere to put the things I’m tired of holding. Things are hard. Grief is hard. Life is hard. And on top of everything, I’m a woman in college trying to push through and graduate in the next 12—maybe 14—months. The potential is there, but the workload is massive. Some days it feels possible. Some days it feels like climbing a mountain with no map.

But I’m still moving. Still showing up. Still trying to build a future out of everything I’ve lost.

If nothing else, this space will be where I can breathe for a minute. Where I can vent without apologizing. Where I can be honest about the days that break me and the days that give me a little hope.

And maybe, somewhere in between, I’ll find a rhythm that helps me get through another December.