Oh… This Is Why I Started Blogging
A reflection on how a simple Dad’s Advice slide deck became the seed of this blog — a place to store wisdom, life lessons, and love for my kids to return to someday.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Third Grade, Forever
Valentina came home bawling.
The thought that she wouldn’t be in the bubble of her third grade class anymore — with her besties Elise and Avery, and under the loving guidance of Ms. Flanagan — had hit her all at once as she stepped off the bus.
I remember that feeling. In third grade, your classroom is a second home. You spend each day with the same small crew, the same teacher, the same routines. Later on — in middle school — that all shifts as you move from class to class. But in these years, that one room is your world. And when it ends, it can feel like you’re losing part of it.
She threw open the front door, and I could hear it before I even saw her: a raw, guttural sound of deep sorrow. This wasn’t a whimper or a sniffle — it was the kind of grief that rises from the belly, heavy with loss. A moaning cry, almost primal, the kind you can’t control because your heart is simply too full to contain it.
And as I held her, I found myself thinking: how incredible it is that this little girl can feel the world so deeply. I loved that about her — that her heart could stretch wide enough to hold such joy, and now such sorrow.
We spent a good ten minutes like that, her body shaking with sobs, me offering hugs whenever she would let me. In the middle of it, I asked gently, “Do you want some water?” She gave a small nod.
We moved to the dining room table. She took small sips of water between sobs, and I watched tear droplets fall softly onto the table beneath her. She buried her head in her arms, her body still heaving and sighing — it reminded me of the mourners I’d seen in Korean films, that kind of open, unguarded grieving where nothing is hidden and everything is felt.
I didn’t try to rush her through it. I offered tissues and sat with her, holding space for her sadness.
I watched as she took five or six deep breaths — each one a little steadier than the last. And then, like a summer storm that rages with fat drops of rain and then suddenly passes, her tears dissipated.
I knew in that instant that she had moved past the deep, visceral pain.
We sat quietly for a moment, letting the calm settle in.
Then I smiled and asked, “You want to go get ice cream?”
She looked up, eyes still puffy but now curious. “Can we get boba tea?” she asked, that hopeful spark returning to her voice.
Now she wasn’t quite ready to go swimming with her cousins. That would have to wait for a little more healing. But she brought her stuffy along, tucked under one arm — and that was just the support she needed to take her next small step forward.
“Know what’s enough. Build what matters.”
Related Posts
Why We Left the Travel Team My Son Worked So Hard to Make
At 11 years old, kids need reps, not the bench. Here's why we left the travel team our son worked so hard to join—and what really matters at this age.
Strong Enough to Soften: Rethinking Independence in Parenting
How do we raise strong, self-reliant kids without sacrificing emotional support? One parent explores the tension between grit and generosity.
Made with Bullet