Lately, I’ve become determined to find hope AND spread hope.

Since losing Steven, I’ve found myself surviving more than living. Grief has a way of doing that. It doesn’t just break your heart; it affects your mind, your body, your energy, and even the simplest parts of everyday life. Something as ordinary as cooking became overwhelming. Grocery shopping. Standing in the kitchen. Cleaning up afterward. It all felt like too much.

Grief has put me in a strange place of feeling like a baby having to learn how to live life all over again. Learning how to navigate life without Steven who walked beside me for nearly four decades. Learning new routines. Learning how to make decisions on my own. Learning how to care for myself. Even learning how to feed myself.

This week I’ve had a multitude of mind shifts. For only the third time since Steven’s passing—and the second time in the last two weeks—I cooked. Not one meal, but two. Chicken Salsa Verde in the crockpot and Turkey & Cabbage Stir Fry, both from my nutritionist’s meal plan. The meals themselves weren’t the victory. The victory was what they represented.

As I prepare for 29029 Everesting this September, I know nutrition is essential. My body needs quality fuel to climb mountains. But over the past few weeks, I’ve realized something even more important. My body doesn’t just need nourishment, it needs reassurance. Nearly a year and a half after losing Steven, I can finally see how grief has kept my nervous system in survival mode. The constant stress, the fatigue, the emotional heaviness. I’m not being dramatic. I’m not exaggerating. Simply put, my body has been trying to protect me after experiencing profound loss.

Every healthy meal I prepare.

Every workout I complete.

Every walk with Buster and Boomer.

Every restful night’s sleep.

They’re all communicating the same message to my nervous system:

“You are safe.”

“You are cared for.”

“You are worthy of nourishment.”

Healing is showing up differently for me these days. It shows up in ordinary moments.

A walk around the neighborhood.

A workout completed even when motivation is low.

A home-cooked meal.

A prayer whispered in the middle of an ordinary day.

Small choices, repeated consistently, become powerful acts of hope.

If you’re walking through grief, recovery, or simply a difficult season, don’t overlook the small victories. They may seem insignificant to everyone else, but they are often the very things that restore us. This week, hope looked like a crockpot and a skillet.Tomorrow, it may look like something entirely different. The important thing is to keep showing up.

One choice.

One meal.

One step.

One prayer.

God is present in every one of them.

What is one small act of hope you will choose today? Never underestimate the power of one small step!

Life With Lisa