The Beach

After my daughter died,
I followed a decision
made long before grief arrived.

I sold the home
where my children had grown
and moved closer to the sea.

I needed water.
Space.
Silence.

A place where sorrow
could breathe.

I found a small condo
already holding everything I needed.
I packed lightly,
taking only what mattered,
and moved with the quiet hope
that life might still be lived
in the shadow of loss.

That first year,
the ocean became my companion.

Every day I walked the shoreline.

I wept.
I screamed into the wind.
Some mornings,
I fought simply to leave my bed—
to resist the pull of despair
and place my feet once more upon the sand.

I did not know
what healing looked like.

I only knew
I had to keep moving.

The waves held everything—
my grief,
my anger,
my disbelief—
and asked nothing of me
except honesty.

Each step became
an act of survival,
a prayer for the daughter
I loved
and would never hold again.

Joy did not return quickly.

For a long time,
I lived one surrendered day
at a time,
letting go of the life
I had imagined.

And then one day,
without warning,
something gentle stirred.

A small bubble of joy
rose quietly inside me.

I cannot tell you
how long it took to arrive there.
Time had become meaningless.

But I remember this:

in that small and tender moment,
I knew.

Happiness would return.

Not as it once was—
but in a new and honest form.

And somehow,
that would be enough.