Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson Podcast

Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson
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Grace & Grit Letters is a podcast of gentle, honest reflections on grief, midlife, friendship, faith, and rebuilding life after it changes shape. These are quiet conversations for tender seasons—meant to be listened to slowly and returned to often. angiehanson.substack.com

  1. The Problem With Grief Is That Nobody Else Can See Your Calendar

    7h ago

    The Problem With Grief Is That Nobody Else Can See Your Calendar

    Dear Friend, One of the most frustrating things about grief is that nobody else can see your calendar. Not your actual calendar. Your grief calendar. The one you carry around in your head. The one filled with birthdays, death dates, diagnoses, anniversaries, hospital visits, phone calls, and moments that changed your life forever. Everyone else is busy planning vacations. You’re wondering if you can survive next Thursday. If you've ever felt like you're carrying a calendar nobody else can see, you're in good company here. Subscribe for honest conversations about grief, resilience, and finding your way forward. Everyone else sees June. You see that June. Everyone else sees Father’s Day. You see a son who should be here. Everyone else sees a random Tuesday. You remember exactly what happened on that Tuesday twenty years ago. The strange thing is, nobody means any harm. Most people aren’t forgetting. They simply aren’t carrying the same calendar. If I can be honest, sometimes we secretly want them to. We want someone else to walk into the room and say: “I know what day it is.” Not because we need a parade. Not because we need the world to stop spinning. Just because it feels exhausting being the keeper of the memories. The historian. The one responsible for remembering. The one carrying dates that nobody else writes down anymore. I think that’s one of the loneliest parts of long-term grief. Not the missing. The remembering. Because twenty years later, people assume you’ve adjusted. And in many ways, you have. You laugh. You travel. You build a life. You create new memories. You even experience joy again. But underneath all of that, there’s still a calendar running quietly in the background. Always. Every grieving person I know has one. The date nobody else remembers. The milestone nobody else sees coming. The week that suddenly feels heavier for reasons they can’t explain. Here’s what I’ve learned: Most people aren’t forgetting our loved ones. They’re simply living in a story that kept moving. While we became the guardians of a chapter they never had to memorize. That realization has softened me. Not completely. I’m still human. I still occasionally want to shake people by the shoulders and yell, “HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT DAY THIS IS?” But I’ve learned something important. Their forgetting is usually not a measure of their love. It’s a measure of their distance from the loss. Those are not the same thing. So when those invisible dates show up, I’ve stopped waiting for other people to acknowledge them. I acknowledge them. I light the candle. I tell the story. I say the name. I buy the cupcake. I visit the grave. I take the walk. I do whatever helps me honor the life that mattered. Because grief has taught me something surprising: The responsibility of remembering isn’t a burden. It’s a privilege. A heartbreaking privilege, yes. But a privilege nonetheless. And while nobody else can see my calendar... I can. And that’s enough. Most days, anyway. The other days, I reserve the right to roll my eyes dramatically and eat dessert first. Grace and grit, friends. Both are required. If this letter resonated with you, I'd love for you to join me here at Grace & Grit Letters. Every week, I share honest reflections on grief, resilience, faith, second chances, and the messy beauty of rebuilding a life after loss. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe

    5 min

  2. 6d ago

    The Loneliness of Being the One Who Remembers

    As Garret’s 21st birthday approaches, I’ve found myself wrestling with something I don’t know how to explain to the people around me. Not because they don’t care. Most of them do. Not because they aren’t supportive. They are. But because there are some experiences in life that can only be understood by the people who lived them beside you. Twenty-one. Twenty years gone. Those numbers have been sitting heavily on my heart lately. For most people, June is simply another month on the calendar. Summer plans are being made. Father’s Day is approaching. People are scheduling barbecues, vacations, and weekends at the lake. Life continues to move forward exactly as it should. And yet, every year when June arrives, I find myself standing in two worlds at once. There is the life I have now—the one I have worked hard to build after unimaginable loss. The life filled with new memories, new traditions, new relationships, and people who love me deeply. Then there is the life that existed before. The life where Garret was here. The life where Jack was here. The life where our future looked entirely different than the one that unfolded. The older I get, the more I realize that one of the hardest parts of grief isn’t just missing the person who died. It’s missing the people who remember them the way you do. Lately, I’ve been missing Jack in a way that feels different than usual. Not because I wish my current life were different. Not because I haven’t found happiness again. But because Jack was the only other person who knew exactly what these milestones meant. He was Garret’s dad. He was the only person who knew what it felt like to hold our son, dream about his future, and imagine the man he would become. When Garret died, we carried that grief together. We wondered together. We remembered together. We asked all the impossible questions together. Would he have played sports? Would he have gone to college? Would he have been tall like his dad? What would his laugh sound like today? Now those questions belong mostly to me. Graci was so young when Garret died. She knows his story. She loves her brother. She understands his importance in our family. But she doesn’t carry the memories. She couldn’t. She was simply too little. And so, as the years pass, I sometimes find myself feeling like the keeper of something precious that fewer and fewer people can truly see. I carry memories that exist nowhere else. I carry stories that only a handful of people remember. I carry a version of our family that disappeared long ago. There is a loneliness in that. A quiet loneliness that has nothing to do with being surrounded by people. I am surrounded by wonderful people. The loneliness comes from knowing that nobody else feels June the way I do. Nobody else’s heart begins counting the days to Garret’s birthday. Nobody else automatically notices that this would have been his 20th year. Nobody else feels the significance of twenty years gone and twenty-one years imagined. And how could they? Their lives kept moving. Mine did too. At least on the outside. But grief has a strange relationship with time. For those who have never experienced profound loss, time often feels linear. One year becomes five. Five becomes ten. Ten becomes twenty. For those of us whose worlds stopped in an instant, time feels different. Part of you moves forward. Part of you stays behind. Part of you learns how to laugh again. Part of you remains forever connected to the moment everything changed. Twenty years later, I can tell you that grief softens. It changes shape. It becomes more familiar. But it never completely leaves. Especially during milestone years. Especially when your child should be turning twenty-one. Especially when the person who would have understood your heartbreak isn’t here either. What I find myself struggling with this year is figuring out how to honor Garret while also honoring the life I’ve built. I don’t think people talk enough about this part. The balancing act of loving the people who are gone while fully loving the people who are here. The tension between remembering and living. The challenge of wanting space for reflection when everyone else simply sees another date on the calendar. Father’s Day falls on Garret’s birthday this year. People want to celebrate. People want to gather. People want to make plans. And I find myself wondering how to explain that I may not want to participate. Or that I might participate differently. That I might attend part of an event but not stay for the celebration afterward. That I might need quiet instead of company. Reflection instead of distraction. Not because I’m sad. Not because I’m ungrateful. But because some days deserve space. Some dates deserve to be felt. Some memories deserve more than squeezing them into the margins of an already busy day. The truth is, I am still figuring this out. I am still learning how to integrate the mother I was, the wife I was, and the woman I am today. I am still learning how to honor Garret’s life without feeling guilty for living mine. I am still learning that I don’t need permission to step away, reflect, remember, or grieve. Maybe that’s what this season is teaching me. That I don’t have to choose between my past and my present. I can love them both. I can celebrate the life I’ve built while still honoring the life I lost. I can show up when it feels right and step back when it doesn’t. And perhaps most importantly, I can stop trying to explain the significance of these dates to people who have never lived them. Because the people who understand won’t need an explanation. And the people who don’t aren’t failing me. They’re simply fortunate enough to have never watched their world stop turning. Twenty years later, mine is moving again. But some days, especially in June, I still feel the place where it broke. And maybe that isn’t something to fix. Maybe it’s simply another way of loving someone who should still be here. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe

    8 min
  3. June Arrives Before the Calendar Says It Does

    May 29

    June Arrives Before the Calendar Says It Does

    Dear friend, Some months arrive quietly. June is not one of them. For me, June arrives before the calendar ever turns. It settles into my chest weeks beforehand. It shows up in little moments when I least expect it. A date catches my eye. A memory surfaces. A song plays. And suddenly, I’m reminded that this month carries pieces of my story that have shaped everything that came after. This June marks what would have been my son Garret’s 21st birthday. His golden birthday. And on June 27th, it will be 20 years since he left this earth. Twenty years. Even writing that feels strange. Because grief does something funny with time. It can make twenty years feel like yesterday and yesterday feel like twenty years ago. I remember the early years when every milestone felt impossible. The first birthday. The first Christmas. The first anniversary. The first time the world seemed to move forward while I was still standing in the rubble. Back then, I thought healing meant grief would get smaller. What I’ve learned instead is that grief changes shape. Love changes shape too. But neither one disappears. People sometimes ask how I still talk about Garret after all these years. My answer is simple. Because he’s still my son. Time doesn’t change that. I didn’t stop being his mom because the calendar kept turning. If anything, I’ve learned that one of the greatest gifts we can give the people we’ve lost is refusing to stop saying their names. Garret. There it is. His name belongs in the room. His life mattered. His story mattered. And the love I have for him didn’t end twenty years ago. It simply had to find a different place to go. I think that’s part of why Butterflies + Halos exists. People often assume I started a greeting card business because I love cards. And I do. But the deeper truth is that I started writing because grief showed me how desperately people want to feel seen. How often they sit alone with heartbreak while everyone around them searches for the perfect words. How many grieving people quietly wonder if anyone remembers. So I started creating the words I wish more people would say. The honest words. The awkward words. The comforting words. The “I don’t know what to do, but I’m here” words. Because sometimes presence matters more than perfection. Actually, most of the time it does. Over the years, I’ve found my own ways to keep Garret’s memory alive. Sometimes it’s through stories. Sometimes it’s through photographs. Sometimes it’s through tears. Sometimes it’s through laughter. And sometimes it’s through creating things that help other people survive what they never wanted to face. That’s really what hope has become for me. Not the absence of grief. Not moving on. Not pretending everything worked out the way I wanted. Hope is learning that love continues even after loss. Hope is carrying someone forward. Hope is choosing to build something beautiful from something that broke your heart. And maybe that’s why June feels both heavy and sacred. Because every year it reminds me of two things: How deeply I loved. And how deeply I was loved. If you’re carrying someone with you this month, I hope you’ll give yourself permission to say their name. Tell their stories. Light the candle. Look through the photos. Share the memory. Laugh when something funny comes to mind. Cry if you need to. There is no expiration date on love. And there is certainly no expiration date on remembrance. Twenty years later, I still say his name. Garret. And I always will. With grace and grit, Angie "If this letter resonated with you, feel free to share it with someone carrying grief too. You never know who may need the reminder that love continues." Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe

    7 min

  4. May 13

    Grief Teaches You What Matters and Who Shows Up

    “Grief teaches you two things: what matters and who shows up.Both lists can be surprising.” I wrote that in a matter of seconds. But if I’m honest…it took years to understand. Because grief doesn’t just break your heart.It rearranges your entire life without asking permission first. It changes what you care about.It changes what you tolerate.And maybe most unexpectedly of all…it changes how you see people. Before loss, I think many of us move through life believing certain things matter more than they actually do. We stress over appearances.Over timelines.Over keeping everyone happy.Over things that feel urgent until life reminds us what truly is. And grief has a way of stripping all of that down to the studs. Suddenly, you realize how little small talk matters when your world is falling apart. You realize how precious time is.How sacred presence is.How valuable honesty becomes. You stop craving surface-level relationships and start longing for depth.For realness.For people who can sit in the uncomfortable without trying to rush you out of it. Loss has a way of clearing out the unnecessary. It becomes a brutal editor of priorities. And then there are the people. Whew. No one really prepares you for that part. Because grief doesn’t just reveal your pain…it reveals your people. Some people you thought would stay forever quietly drift away. Not always because they’re cruel.Sometimes because they’re uncomfortable.Sometimes because they don’t know what to say.Sometimes because your grief reminds them life can change in an instant, and that reality feels too heavy to hold. Still… it hurts. It hurts when the people you expected to show up the loudest become silent. It hurts when friendships shift.When invitations stop coming.When your pain becomes too inconvenient for people who only knew how to love you in lighter seasons. Grief has a way of teaching you who can hold space… and who can only hold conversations. That lesson alone can change you. But then something unexpected happens too. The quiet people show up. The ones you didn’t necessarily predict. The acquaintance who checks in every anniversary.The friend who remembers your person’s name.The one who sends a simple “thinking of you” text without needing a response.The people who don’t try to fix your grief… they just sit beside it. Those people become sacred. Because when your life falls apart, you stop measuring relationships by popularity or history. You start measuring them by presence. Who stayed?Who remembered?Who made space for your pain without making you feel guilty for carrying it? Those are the people grief teaches you to hold onto. And honestly?Grief also changes how you show up for others. Once you’ve lived through devastating loss, you begin to notice pain differently. You remember the dates.You send the text.You sit longer in hard conversations.You stop trying to tie everything up with silver ribbons and neat little phrases. Because you know some wounds don’t need solutions.They need witnesses. That may be one of the hardest and most beautiful things grief teaches us. Not just what matters… But how to matter. And while I wish so many of us never had to learn these lessons the hard way, I will say this: The people who stay soft with you during grief?The people who continue saying your loved one’s name?The people who let you be fully honest about your pain without trying to edit it? Those are your people. Not the loudest ones.Not the most performative ones.Not always even the ones you expected. Just the real ones. And grief, strangely enough, becomes the thing that finally helps you see them clearly. Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe

    6 min
  5. To the Ones Mother’s Day Forgot (But Heaven Never Did)

    May 10

    To the Ones Mother’s Day Forgot (But Heaven Never Did)

    Dear You, Yes, you. The one who feels a lump in your throat when you see the flowers lined up at the store…The one who scrolls past the brunch photos a little faster than usual…The one who smiles for others, but carries something heavier underneath. This letter is for you. For the mother who had to say goodbye far too soon—You are still a mother.Not “were.” Not “almost.” Not “used to be.”You are a mother in the deepest, fiercest, most forever kind of way. Love like yours doesn’t disappear just because the world can’t see where it lands anymore. For the daughter who no longer has her mom to call—You are still her girl.Still shaped by her voice, her laugh, her way of doing things.Still carrying pieces of her in the way you love, the way you show up, the way you keep going. Death may have changed your relationship…But it did not erase it. For the woman who longed to be a mother, but life had other plans—Your grief is real.Your longing is sacred.And your capacity to love? Still overflowing, still worthy, still seen. Motherhood is not only defined by what the world can measure.Sometimes it lives quietly in the spaces no one applauds. And for all the in-between places—The strained relationships.The complicated stories.The roles you had to take on too soon…or never got to fully step into. You are not forgotten here. Mother’s Day can be beautiful.And it can be brutal.Sometimes, it’s both in the same breath. So if today feels heavy, you don’t need to fix it.You don’t need to force gratitude or wrap your grief in a bow. You are allowed to feel what you feel. But I want you to know this— You are seen.Not in a passing, polite way…But in a deep, soul-level, I recognize that ache in you kind of way. Your love still matters.Your story still counts.Your person—your child, your mom, your dream—is still part of you. Always. So today, if the world feels loud with celebration…You are allowed to move quietly. Light the candle.Say their name.Hold the memory.Or simply sit and breathe through the waves as they come. There is no wrong way to carry love like this. And just in case no one has said it to you in a way that truly lands— You are still a mother.You are still a daughter.You are still deeply, undeniably loved. And you always will be. With you, in all of it,Angie 🤍 Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe

    3 min
  6. Some Rooms Love Volume More Than Value

    Apr 28

    Some Rooms Love Volume More Than Value

    There was a season when I paid to be in a room I thought might change everything. You know the kind of room I mean. A place filled with smart women, bold promises, strategy sessions, bright graphics, motivational language, and the steady hum of people becoming “more.” More visible. More successful. More connected. More known. And to be fair, some of that was true. I learned things there. I met good people there. I made friendships I genuinely valued. I was grateful for the season. But when my membership ended, something else became clear. Some connections were tied to the container. Some support was tied to access. Some community was only community while the monthly payment cleared. That realization stung more than I expected. Not because anyone owed me anything. They didn’t. But because many of us walk into rooms hoping for more than tactics. We hope for belonging. We hope to be known. We hope that if we show up sincerely, something lasting will grow. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes the room simply wasn’t built for the kind of work you carry. That was the deeper truth I had to face. My work lives in grief. Not in the polished version of grief people post once a year with a candle emoji and a quote about heaven. I mean the real grief. The middle-of-the-night grief.The can’t-focus grief.The empty-chair grief.The birthday-without-them grief.The “I don’t know how to keep going but I am trying” grief. That kind of work doesn’t always translate in business circles built on visibility, speed, and momentum. Grief work is slower. It is sacred. It happens in messages no one sees. In cards sent quietly. In conversations people remember for years. In giving language to pain people thought they had to carry alone. It is hard to turn holy work into highlight reels. And maybe that’s why I sometimes felt unseen. I am not the loudest person in the room. I do not need to announce every move, every win, every coffee meeting, every breakthrough, every breath I took before noon. Some women are gifted at visibility. I respect that. But visibility and value are not the same thing. Noise and impact are not twins. Attention and legacy are not interchangeable. That was one of the greatest lessons I carried out of that season. I also learned this: Not every room that helped you is meant to hold you forever. Some rooms teach.Some rooms stretch.Some rooms reveal what you no longer need.Some rooms show you where you do not belong so you can return to where you do. And I know where my people are now. They are in the grief world. They are the ones carrying invisible weights. They are the helpers, the heartbroken, the trying-again people, the women rebuilding after loss, the ones who need honesty more than hype. They do not need me to be louder. They need me to be real. That, I can do. So if you’ve ever felt overlooked in a room that celebrates volume, hear this: You are not less because you are quieter. You are not failing because you are deeper. You are not behind because your work cannot be measured in applause. Some seeds grow best underground before anyone sees the bloom. These days, I’m less interested in being noticed by crowded rooms. I’m more interested in being useful in sacred ones. And if a room only knows how to honor noise? Let it echo without you. Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe

    5 min
  7. I’m Trying…(And Somehow, That Has to Be Enough)

    Apr 14

    I’m Trying…(And Somehow, That Has to Be Enough)

    Dear You, I heard you the other day.Not in a grand speech or a perfectly worded sentence—but in something far more honest. You said, “I’m trying.” And oh…how that landed. Because those two words?They don’t come from a place of ease.They come from the trenches.From the mornings where your body wakes up,but your heart isn’t quite sure it wants to follow. “I’m trying” is not small.It’s not weak.It’s not something to gloss over or fix. It is everything. It’s trying to swing your legs out of bedwhen grief has wrapped itself around your ankles. It’s trying to showerwhen even the thought of water feels like too much. It’s trying to answer a text,to show up,to breathe through another wavethat no one else can see crashing over you. It’s trying to existin a world that kept spinningwhen yours came to a screeching, heartbreaking halt. And for the moms—the ones carrying a child in their heart instead of their arms—“I’m trying” is sacred ground. Because you are trying to motherin a way the world doesn’t always understand. You are trying to remember themand survive without themin the same breath. You are trying to make senseof something that will never make sense. And somehow…you’re still here. That matters more than you know. But here’s the quiet truth no one says out loud enough: We are all trying. In our own ways.In our own messes.In our own invisible battles. Some are trying to hold a marriage together.Some are trying to find themselves again.Some are trying to smile through things they haven’t named yet.Some are just trying to get through the daywithout falling apart in the middle of the grocery store aisle. This life—this wild, unpredictable, beautifully broken life—can feel like a fishbowl sometimes. Everyone circling.Everyone watching.Everyone assuming we’re finebecause we’re still moving. But movement doesn’t mean ease.And breathing doesn’t mean you’re not hurting. Sometimes it just means…you’re trying. So if today all you did was try—try to get up,try to function,try to keep going— I need you to hear this: That counts. That is brave.That is worthy.That is enough for today. Not forever.Not perfectly.Just for today. Tomorrow, you’ll try again.Maybe a little differently.Maybe a little stronger.Or maybe just the same. And that’s okay. Because trying is not the absence of struggle—it’s proof that something inside youis still choosing to stay. And that…that is a quiet kind of resiliencethe world doesn’t applaud enough. But I see it. I see you. Still here.Still breathing.Still trying. And for today, my friend…that is more than enough. With you in the trying, always. 🤍 If these letters feel like something you need in your life right now…you’re always welcome here. Join me here 🤍 Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe

    5 min
  8. A Letter to My Brother, 17 Years Later

    Apr 8

    A Letter to My Brother, 17 Years Later

    Hey Seth, Seventeen years. I don’t even know how that sentence is real. Seventeen years since we said goodbye to you here and somehow, I’m still finding ways to say hello. You were my little brother—but let’s be honest, there was nothing “little” about you.6’5” of strength, softness, and that quiet presence that could steady a room without saying a word. A gentle giant in every sense. And yet…life asked so much of you. Five years.Five years of fighting something that had no business choosing you. I still think about those early days—when diagnosis turned our world upside down. When life shifted from ordinary to “how do we do this?” overnight. Being there, helping take care of you…those weren’t just hard days. They were sacred ones. Even now, I wouldn’t trade that time for anything. You didn’t just survive those years—you lived them. You found love.You married Joey.You built a life in the middle of uncertainty, right there on the acreage, surrounded by pieces of all of us. And oh…how I wish you had more time in that chapter.More than just a year.More than just a glimpse of what you deserved. I still wrestle with the timing of it all. Losing Jack…and then losing you just two months later.That kind of grief doesn’t ask permission—it just arrives, sits down, and refuses to leave. I’ve asked the questions.The “why him?”The “why then?”The “why not more time?” And if I’m being honest…I still don’t have the answers. But I do have you.Not in the way I want. Not in the way we all deserved.But in the way grief teaches us to carry love forward. We miss you, Seth.God, do we miss you. We miss your presence at family gatherings.We miss your humor, your steadiness, your way of just being there without needing attention.We miss the way you helped shape this family—how you held your place in it so naturally, like you were part of the foundation itself. Things shifted when you left.The mold changed.The rhythm of “us” was never quite the same. You left behind so much love.Joey.Our parents.Your sister Marcy, your brother Nathan. And me…your big sister, still here, still talking to you in quiet moments like this. Seventeen years later, I’ve learned something about grief. It doesn’t mean we’re moving on.It means we’re learning how to move with you—just differently. You’re in the stories we tell.The memories we circle back to.The quiet pauses when something reminds us of you out of nowhere. You’re in the way I show up now.In the way I love harder.In the way I understand how fragile and sacred this life really is. You didn’t get the years you should have had…But you left a mark that time doesn’t get to erase. And maybe that’s the closest thing to forever we get here. I still wish you were sitting at the table.I still wish we had more ordinary days.I still wish I didn’t have to write letters to reach you. But since this is what I have… I’ll keep writing.I’ll keep remembering.I’ll keep saying your name. I love you, Seth. Always have.Always will. —Your big sister 🤍 Get full access to Grace & Grit Letters - Where grace meets grief by Angie Hanson at angiehanson.substack.com/subscribe

    5 min
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Grace & Grit Letters is a podcast of gentle, honest reflections on grief, midlife, friendship, faith, and rebuilding life after it changes shape. These are quiet conversations for tender seasons—meant to be listened to slowly and returned to often. angiehanson.substack.com

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