As I wander through grief—a forest you’re simply forced to live in—it feels as though there’s no clear path, just a constant attempt to find your way. In my own journey, I’ve tried to be there for friends who have lost parents, reaching out to them regularly. When someone so important dies, it can feel like no one has ever understood the depth of your pain. But some people do.

That’s why I make it a point to text my friends, setting reminders throughout the month to check in. It helps me stay connected, but it also gives me a sense of purpose. This week, one of those friends sent me a response that stopped me in my tracks. He reminded me that my mom would want me to carry on, to truly live.

The love in his words caught me off guard. It wasn’t meant to shame me but to encourage me—to live again, or maybe for the first time. No one else has said that directly. (Perhaps my therapist but he did not know her.) And now, here I am, at this strange moment where a sense of calm is beginning to settle, and I finally get to make decisions for myself. I also should just have the fundamental right to make decisions for myself.

My healing is far from complete, but I’m ready to try. Still, the weight of loss can sometimes hit me like a wave, feeling like the wave can tumble me through the grief as I remember who all I’ve lost. And yet, here I sit, choosing to take a step forward—however uncertain that step may feel. That is why I am trying to get some of it out. Write it down to figure out themes and process what I won’t share minus a good death joke here and there.