May Reminds Me How Far I've Come

May Reminds Me How Far I've Come

When May rolls around, something shifts in me. Not because of a date on the calendar, but because of what that month represents a threshold I crossed a long time ago that I'm only now beginning to fully understand.

Seventeen years. That's how long it's been since my world changed in ways I couldn't have imagined. And honestly, for the first several years, I measured time by the weight of it. The heaviness. The absence. The learning to live in a body that knew how to grieve before it knew how to heal.

But this May feels different.

I'm not here to retell the story of loss. That's a story I've already carried through these pages, and it's real and it matters. But what I'm noticing now is something quieter and more powerful: I actually trusted a path I couldn't see.

I didn't have a plan. I didn't have all the answers. I didn't wake up the morning after loss and think, "Okay, here's my five-year vision." That's not how it worked. What I had instead was something smaller and braver I had a knowing that I had to keep going. Not because I felt strong. Not because I had it figured out. But because staying still wasn't an option, and the people I loved deserved to see me try.

So I kept moving. Some days that meant showing up for my kids. Some days it meant sitting with my grief in the quiet of early morning. Some days it meant learning about gut health and nervous system healing because my body was screaming that something needed to shift. I didn't know these small choices were building something. I just knew I couldn't stop.

And then one day years later I realized I wasn't just surviving anymore. I was actually creating.

I started investing in courses and trainings. Marketing. Social media. Personal development. End of life doula work, which deepened my understanding of myself as someone who has always been a caregiver. I found mentors. I built a team around me, and we're building this together, side by side, learning as we go. I don't have to figure everything out alone anymore, and that changes everything.

I watched my children build their own lives. I cared for my parents through their own seasons. I made hard choices about where I wanted to live, what kind of life I actually wanted to build. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized I was allowed to dream for myself.

Not someday. Not when everything was perfect. Not when I had finally "moved on" or "healed completely." Right there, in the middle of the mess and the learning and the rebuilding, I was allowed to want more.

So I moved to South Carolina. I left fifty-seven years in the same county because I needed something different. Warmer weather. New horizons. A fresh landscape to match the fresh version of myself I was becoming. I left the snow and the familiar, and I built a business. I started writing. I began serving other people from the place of everything I've learned through my own journey.

My son is in New Hampshire. My daughter and my grandson are here with me in Greer. We're building something together. And every single day, I'm aware that none of this would have been possible if I hadn't trusted the path when I couldn't see where it was going.

That's what trusting the path actually looks like. It's not one big leap. It's a thousand small yeses to yourself, even when no one's watching. Even when you're not sure it will work out. It's choosing to invest in yourself when money is tight. It's saying yes to a mentor even when you're scared. It's moving across the country at nearly sixty because something inside you knows there's more waiting.

The truth is, I spent a lot of years being last. Being the one who showed up for everyone else. Being the one who carried everyone else's load on my shoulders. I was never lazy. I was never lost. I was just always last. And somewhere along the way, I accepted that as just how it was going to be.

But grief has a way of stopping you in your tracks. It strips away all the things you thought mattered and leaves you standing in the rubble of what's really true. And what I found in that rubble was this: I was allowed to want something for myself. I was allowed to build. I was allowed to dream.

Learning to carry love in a new way didn't mean abandoning the past. It meant honoring it by actually living. By showing up for myself the way I'd always shown up for everyone else. By saying yes to opportunities that scared me. By building something that's mine.

Here's what I want you to know, especially if you're in the middle of your own hard season right now: you don't have to choose between honoring your loss and building your life. You don't have to wait until you feel "ready" to start dreaming again. You don't have to earn permission to want something for yourself.

Grief and growth can happen in the same body, on the same timeline. You can carry love in a new way and still move forward. You can remember someone deeply and still build boldly.

If something in that resonates with you, if you're standing at your own threshold wondering if it's okay to keep going, to dream, to build something that's just for you it is. You're allowed.

And you don't have to do it alone. That's what this is all about.

If you're ready to start saying yes to yourself starting with your health I put together a free guide that's helped me and many others understand what the body actually needs to rebuild. It's my gift to you.

Grab it here: freegiftclaudetteeames.com

In support,

Claudette 🌻