The Grief That Grows As You Grow

The quiet ache that lives alongside your most courageous moments

The Egg That Cracked Me Open

As I sat crying over my croque madame with a new friend in Mexico City, PMS hormones pulling grief to the surface, I realized how deeply tired I am — not just from the move or the uncertainty, but from a lifetime of feeling like I've had to fight, push, and prove my way into a life that feels like mine.

I found myself explaining something I don't always have words for — how much effort it has taken to become someone who can choose her own life. Choosing this path hasn't just been a decision. It's been years of unlearning, healing, and going against the weight of my parents' fear and concern. Even when they say they want me to be happy, it's often followed by "we don't understand," and that gap… is where the loneliness lives.

She met me with so much compassion. And then she shared her experience — how her path had been supported, encouraged, believed in. How she'd never had that same backdrop.

It was validating… and painful.

Because being seen in your pain can feel like relief — but it can also highlight what you never had.

I am the black sheep of my family.

While my parents and two older siblings all live in the town our parents raised us in, working standard Monday-to-Friday jobs, I now live in Mexico City chasing an entrepreneurial dream — building a life as a writer and artist. Risky? Absolutely. Worth it? Every single day.

I've done a lot of healing to get here. And I am finally chasing a life that feels and looks like me.

This is a beautiful thing. A courageous thing. But it's not the answer to everything — I don't think there is one answer to life. I think it's just about navigating what we've been given in a way that works for us.

This postcard came from the same grief I'm writing about — the family shaped hole love leaves, and learning to live alongside it rather than trying to fill it. This is part of my Postcards from Katie collection — monthly snail mail handwritten, handmade, and sent with love to you from me. [Join the waitlist here.]

Here's what no one talks about though:

The more I heal → the more I step into myself. And every new milestone of courage and self-determination is quietly accompanied by grief. The grief of still being unseen, misunderstood, and unsupported by the ones you crave it from the most.

That brunch brought that reality into sharp focus.

I write this six weeks into the bravest decision I've ever made — moving to Mexico City to pursue my dream of becoming a writer, an artist, and building a community of like-minded souls.

Three years ago, I left a successful private practice. I had a downtown condo. A comfortable income. I thought I was (just) a social worker and was prepared to walk that identity into retirement.

Now when someone asks what I do, I say: "Well… I'm a professionally trained social worker, but I'm pursuing a career in writing and art and building a community around that."

Massive identity shift. Beautiful identity shift. Necessary, freeing identity shift.

And a real and regular battle with imposter syndrome.

So why have I cried almost every day since moving to the city I love and chasing my dreams?

Because new moments of growth are met with new moments of grief.

The desire for the people you love to genuinely be part of your journey is normal. And it may never fully leave you. That's okay. This is the quiet grief no one talks about.

But here's what I believe: grief is there because love is there. And while it may pop up unexpectedly, it will lessen over time. It helps you process. It helps you let go. It helps you move forward.

And here's the thing I'm most grateful for:

While healing is ultimately my responsibility — while no one can do this work for me — I am not doing life alone.

There are people who do see me, support me, and celebrate with me. That brunch reminded me of that too.

And because I know what it feels like to carry this without that — I built something. A space where you don't have to carry it alone either.

We Write. We Heal. is my monthly virtual expressive writing circle — built for the people who feel everything deeply and have spent too long doing it in silence.

It's a place to set your load down for a little while. To write, to breathe, to be witnessed by people who actually get it. Not a replacement for the family support you deserved — but a real, genuine space where you are seen, heard, and never alone in what you carry.

If you've read this far and felt something — this circle was made for you.

Click here to Learn more and join my next virtual circle

I don't think my family is sitting at home waiting for me to return to Canada with my head down. But they're also not sitting there anticipating how it's all going to fall into place — how even the so-called "failures" are just redirections to something better than I could have imagined.

Living with that backdrop is exhausting. It requires ongoing emotional awareness and intentional work to undo the effects of self-doubt. And self-doubt, left unchecked, will ruin you — because you'll question everything and start nothing.

I battle it regularly. I hold it mindfully. I acknowledge it, but I don't let it make my decisions.

It's okay to hold the grief alongside the joy of chasing your dreams.

The grief is serving its purpose — helping you let go and move forward, with love for your past pain, your present self, and your future hope.

Becoming who you're meant to be can feel liberating and expansive… and deeply painful at the same time.

Both can exist.

These are my raw and honest thoughts. I hope they help.

Katie 🩷