Big 4, Stars Birthdays, and the Wallowing I Couldn't Outrun

This week was tough. There were endless email inquiries, events, regular Graze work, my side job, making lunch for the kids every single day, delivering meals Monday morning, nonstop prep, messages, lists, more lists, and then the exciting bonus round of realizing I forgot something I was holding in my actual hand. Not enough hours in the day. Not even close. The hours were running away from me like they owed money.

And I kept saying, "It's fine, I'm fine, we're fine," which is usually how I know I am absolutely not fine.

Today is George's birthday. Big 4! I can't believe it. Four years old. Four whole years of this boy being here, taking up space, making noise, making us laugh, making me question whether socks are truly necessary in a house. (They are apparently not, according to him.) Four years of watching him grow into his own little person, which is beautiful and completely rude because could everyone please stop growing for five minutes so I can catch up emotionally?

His birthday is also my dad's birthday.

His birthday in the stars. And, yeah. That's a lot. I have been leading up to this day with mixed feelings swirling around like someone shook a snow globe full of memories, grief, birthday candles, and unfinished thoughts. George gets to turn four. My dad should be here. George gets cake and presents and whatever strange toy makes an alarming electronic sound at 6:30 in the morning. My dad gets remembered, missed, talked about, carried around in the invisible spaces of our lives. Two birthdays on one day. One little boy here, full of life and energy and crumbs. One dad gone, but somehow still everywhere.

My heart has been trying to hold both things at once, and honestly, it is not a very organized heart. It has no filing system. No labeled folders. No little color-coded tabs. Just emotional receipts shoved into a drawer.

My dad passed away in April last year, and I know technically time has moved forward, because the calendar is stupid and relentless, but grief still feels fresh. Not every day in the same way. Some days it’s quiet, like a low hum in the background. Other days it walks into the room, sits down beside me, and starts eating my fries without asking. That’s been lately.

I kept myself busy because I didn't want to wallow. That was the plan. Work hard. Keep moving. Answer the emails. Make the lunches. Prep the orders. Deliver the meals. Pick up the thing. Drop off the other thing. Do the side job. Be a mom. Be a business owner. Be a functioning adult. I only slept 3 hours last night.

I have always had this work-hard-play-hard Pisces philosophy. Go all in. Give everything. Then maybe, if there are any crumbs of energy left, put on comfy pants and eat something delicious while pretending I am going to watch just one episode of anything.

I love being busy. I really do. There is something satisfying about getting through a long list and looking at a finished grazing table or a packed platterbox and thinking, "Okay, maybe I do know what I'm doing." Even when five minutes earlier I was standing at the refrigerator trying to remember why I walked over there.

But sometimes being busy is also how I avoid myself.

Because if I keep moving, I don't have to stop and feel everything. If I'm answering an inquiry, I'm not thinking about my dad. If I'm making lunches, I'm not thinking about how he never got to see George turn four. If I'm prepping cheeses and fruit, I'm not thinking about the fact that there are so many ordinary moments I wish I could tell him about.

Then life happens anyway. The sadness gets in through the side door. I'll be driving and suddenly I'm staring off into the void at a red light, completely gone, until someone behind me taps their horn, maybe flips me off, and I remember that work needs to be done. Or I'm standing in the kitchen holding a knife, not cutting anything, just floating somewhere between a memory and the next task. Then I snap back and think, "Oh right. The croissants. The children. The emails. The entire existence I am apparently responsible for."

No amount of McDonald's helped.

No amount of Red Bulls helped either, and believe me, I gave them a fair chance. They entered my body with the confidence of tiny motivational speakers and left me just as sad, except now my heart was beating like it had heard a rumor. The McDonald's fries were good, though. Let the record show.

But you can't outrun sadness with busyness. You can sprint, sure. You can hide behind prep lists and grocery bags and email chains. You can make yourself so tired that you fall asleep before the feelings catch up. Only got 3 hours of sleep last night so super struggle mode right now.

But grief has excellent cardio. It catches you in the quiet. And I'm learning that wallowing isn't always the failure I thought it was. Sometimes wallowing is just feeling. Sometimes it’s my brain and body saying, "Hi, hello, we have been carrying this around and would like to put it down for a minute."

Grief is love with nowhere to go. I know people say that, and it can sound like one of those silly quotes printed on a canvas in a waiting room, but it's true. The love is still there. That's the problem and the gift and the whole impossible thing.

I still love my dad, so I miss him.

I miss him because there are things I want to tell him. I want him to know what the grandkids are like. I want him to see George at four. I want to tell him about Graze, the chaos, the wins, the hard weeks, the silly things that happen in the shop. All the new people I’ve met. The adventures I’ve had. I want to complain to him about being tired and then hear whatever he would have said back. I used to call him every day after work about nothing and everything.

I want more ordinary. That's the part that gets me. Not just the big memories. The regular Tuesday stuff. The boring phone calls. The random errands. The sitting around doing absolutely nothing. I would take the most painfully mundane afternoon if it meant he was still here.

And then, right in the middle of all that hurt, George is turning four. He is here. He is loud and hilarious and growing too fast. He is asking questions I don't know how to answer and requesting snacks immediately after eating snacks. He is making the kind of memories I will one day wish I could freeze forever.

So I am trying to let the joy be joy without feeling guilty for it. That is the strange thing about grief and birthdays landing on the same day. I can be heartbroken and happy. I can laugh at George blowing out his candle and cry because my dad isn't here to watch. I can celebrate one birthday while mourning another. These feelings don't cancel each other out. They sit beside each other, awkwardly sharing the same chair.

Maybe that is what this week has been trying to teach me. I don't have to choose between being grateful and being sad.

One of my last meals with my dad was at Five Guys. Sometimes I want to go order there, and I'll tell whoever's at the register exactly what he got. I remember it too clearly, the way you remember the details you never want to forget. Always extra mayo for the fries. Don’t judge us. So to celebrate him on his birthday this week, I think I'll go order the exact same thing he had that last time. A little birthday ritual. A way to sit with him at the table even when he's not there.

I don't have to turn my dad's birthday into a perfectly meaningful memorial day. I don't have to be inspirational. I don't have to make grief look tidy. Sometimes I can just say, "This hurts," and then go make lunch because the children are hungry and apparently crackers are not a complete meal (I disagree, but fine).

I can keep working and still admit I'm struggling. I can show up for my family and still have moments where I disappear into my own head. I can be thankful for this business, for the people who email me, for every order and every delivery and every person who trusts me with their celebrations, while also feeling completely wrung out and emotionally held together by caffeine and fries.

Both things can be true. And to everyone who has been patient with me this week: thank you. I’ve been going through it. Life in general. 38 kind of sucks right now to be honest but it’s slowly getting better. I took a little longer to respond, I know I sounded scattered, and I was answering emails while thinking about a birthday cake while remembering my dad.

This is the real behind the scenes. Not the cute finished box with the perfect fruit placement. The part where the box is beautiful, but I have been crying in the car beforehand, but also after. The part where life is lifing and you still have to get the grapes.

I'm figuring it out. Not gracefully. Not quickly. But I'm figuring it out.

Happy birthday in the stars, Dad. Happy birthday, my sweet George. Big 4.

And tonight, I might actually let myself be still for a minute. No running. No pretending. Maybe just a candle, a cup of tea, and a little room for all of it. The love. The sadness. The gratitude. The wallowing. Then tomorrow, I'll get up and do the next thing. Because that's what we do, right?

We feel it. We carry it. We keep going. And occasionally we eat McDonald's fries in the car like it's a sacred emotional ritual.

Love you guys. Thanks for being here through the messy bits.

XX,

Abby

Song of the day: Ruelle-The Other Side

Gut-punch. Fits the weight of the week.