When Grief and Gratitude Collide

This week, my family returned to the D.C. area. It had been a year since we last drove past the house where my daughter spent the first five years of her life—in the tree-lined neighborhood that still, in many ways, feels like home. The canopy of trees along the Beltway and through the familiar D.C. curves greeted us like old friends. And with it came a wave of longing—for the life we left behind when we moved to Colorado.

It wasn’t a move sparked by brokenness. We weren’t fleeing anything. We were pulled toward something more—being closer to family, creating a new chapter before our daughter became too settled in her routines and schools. I believed resilience would rise naturally in a five-year-old. But the move was harder than I expected—for all of us, honestly. My daughter and husband most of all. And standing once again in our old stomping grounds, it was clear: our hearts will always carry a piece of D.C.

Still, this trip was gentler than our last one a year ago, when the wounds of moving were fresh. That visit felt disorienting, as if we were suspended in a liminal space—not quite Coloradans, no longer Marylanders. It was the messy middle, and I remember promising myself we’d give it more time—more breathing room—before returning again.

This time, something had shifted.

As we reunited with friends who are more like family, I realized how unbreakable some bonds are. For that, I’m grateful. My daughter now has pen pals in her preschool besties. My own friendships continue to anchor and nourish me. And my daughter, this time, had clearly integrated the move more deeply into her sense of self.

Taking the first bite of her soft taco from Fish Taco—her favorite restaurant—she let out a satisfied sigh and said, “This tastes like home. Like my childhood.” (Even though she’s still very much in it.) She wanted to revisit her old neighborhood park, make new memories in familiar places. Watching her light up with joy listening to the soothing sounds of the cicadas as fireflies danced in the distance, I felt deep gratitude that we gave her such a beautiful beginning—a place where she felt loved and adored. And that we can return to that place, not in sorrow, but with appreciation for the life we built there together.

Now me? I had a harder time keeping my nervous system regulated while navigating the chaotic dance of Beltway traffic. I shuffled between Virginia, D.C., and Maryland, all while July’s humid air stole my breath and mosquito bites tallied up with every impromptu rain shower. And still—I’m thankful.

Thankful that I’ve lived in more than one place. That Colorado, California, New York City, and Washington, D.C., have all shaped me. That my daughter now gets to grow with that same rich layering of place and memory. We become better when we stretch, try new things, and let ourselves be transformed—even when part of us wants to crawl back into the comfort of the shell we’ve outgrown.

This trip, we were finally able to see the beauty without being swallowed by the grief. We didn’t forget what we left behind—we just finally had enough space to see it clearly, with full hearts.

Where in your life are grief and gratitude coexisting right now?

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For the world needs who you were made to be!