When Presence Becomes the Greatest Gift

A tender reflection on loss, motherhood, and the healing nature of simply showing up.

Photo by the author

There are moments that hold so much at once—grief and joy, presence and absence, the ache of what’s no longer and the grace of what still is.

This past weekend, we honored the life of my dear friend Marguerite. She passed away in January, and the celebration of her life happened the day before Mother’s Day. The timing was profound. I found myself carrying the weight of loss into a weekend usually marked by flowers and family.

And yet, there we were—in a nearly full church, surrounded by so many familiar faces. I haven't seen many in years, but we showed up. For her. For each other. And for the memories that connected us. It was powerful in that quiet way that leaves a lasting impression: love gathered in one room, still holding.

Marguerite was colorful—vibrant and slightly unexpected. Her wardrobe, her spirit, her curiosity. I tend to live in black, white, and denim. She wore joy, even when life got complicated. I like to think that when I feel brave enough to wear color, it will be a small tribute to her.

As I watched her family speak with such tenderness and strength, I was reminded of how much love she gave—and how deeply she was loved in return. That kind of legacy stays with you. It makes you want to show up more fully in your own life.

The very next day was Mother’s Day. I spent it with three of my sons in person and one over the phone. The timing felt especially meaningful—grief and gratitude sharing space. After honoring Marguerite’s life, I found myself even more aware of the quiet power of being together, not out of obligation, but out of love.

“You don't "have" to do something, you are Blessed enough to do it.”
― Jeanette Coron

It’s midlife, and I’m noticing the layers more. The shifts. The letting go of old expectations—of what we “should” be or prove. I’m seeing more clearly how even strong people need hugs and rest and time. We carry a lot, and so often, quietly. But we don’t have to pretend we’re fine. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do—for ourselves or for someone else—is to ask, “How are you, really?”

Lately, the construction behind our house has finally quieted. In the stillness, I’ve been noticing the visiting warblers, grosbeaks, robins and even a downy woodpecker in the backyard tree. Their songs are peaceful. They’re reminders that joy keeps showing up if we pay attention.

Robin photo by author

And here’s what I want to say if you’re also holding something invisible, or navigating change, or just tired in ways that don’t always have words:

Take the pause.
Not to escape your feelings.
Not to avoid the ache.
But because healing and blooming both happen in quiet spaces.

You don’t have to see the world through rose-colored glasses. Just trust that the roses will come.

With gratitude and gentleness,
Amy

PS The podcast will return in a few weeks. In the meantime take a moment to catch up on older episodes or revisit and share your favorite with someone who needs it right now.

In full bloom - photo by author