The Gilded Margin

Adventure Files | Gilded Margin

Today marks one year since my grandfather died.

My grandfather was more like a father to me. I spoke to him every day if I could, but at least two or three times a week during my busy seasons.

I miss hearing his voice.
I miss his advice.
I miss his companionship.
I miss him in every capacity.

I especially miss him calling me Princess and treating me like one.

He was one of the few people in my life who made me feel completely safe. I miss his hugs. I miss his birthday and holiday phone calls. I miss his love of hunting and his ridiculous amount of car knowledge. That man knew everything, and honestly, I’m still not sure how.

I even miss his inappropriate jokes.

This year has been hard.

I’ve had to learn how to navigate a world where I can’t just pick up the phone and call him. I’ve spent the year convincing myself that I don’t need to hold onto every single thing that belonged to him. I’ve spent the year learning what to do with the enormous void he left behind and trying to make it feel a little less enormous.

I’ve tried to ignore the pain when it comes and goes.

I fill my days with productivity. I surround myself with people who make me laugh. I keep moving.

But grief has a way of reminding you that moving forward doesn’t mean leaving someone behind.

Pieces of me feel like they were pieces of him.

So I don’t have a thrilling Adventure Files story today.

I have something else.

An adventurous decision.

I am going to get my motorcycle license by the end of 2027.

And by the end of 2028, I am hopeful that I’ll have my own motorcycle to ride in his name.

I’m also going to get an eagle tattoo for my grandpa, just like the one he had on his arm.

I want to wear it like armor.

Because this Adventure Files isn’t really about where I’m going today.

It’s about learning how to carry someone with me when I can’t physically have them beside me anymore.

These are the adventures of grief.

Grief is an adventure too.

Just not the kind of adventure any of us would willingly choose.

There are no scenic routes, no carefully planned itineraries, and no guarantee that you’ll know where you’re going. Some days you move forward. Some days you circle back. Some days you find yourself standing somewhere you’ve never been before, wondering how you got there and how you’re supposed to find your way home.

There are unexpected memories, familiar places that suddenly feel different, and moments when something as simple as a voice, a smell, a song, or an old belonging can transport you right back to a person you would give anything to hug again.

And somehow, you keep going.

Not because you stop missing them.

Because you learn how to carry the missing with you.

This isn’t the adventure I would have chosen.

But it is the one I’m living.

And I’m still finding my way through it.

I’m still navigating.
I’m still hurting.
I’m still learning.

And I’m probably not leaving my bed today.

And that’s okay, too.

If you’re grieving someone, please know that you don’t have to make today productive. You don’t have to make yourself feel better. You don’t have to prove that you’re healing.

Sometimes surviving the day is the adventure.

For those who want a book to sit beside them in the harder parts of grief, I’ve put together the books I’ve personally read about grieving and loss on my Bookshop page. Those links are affiliate links, so if you purchase through them, I may receive a small commission at no additional cost to you.

My Online Bookshop

One book I especially recommend is It’s OK That You’re Not OK by Megan Devine. It approaches grief as something we learn to live alongside rather than something we simply “get over.” (Macmillan Publishers)

And today, my local spotlight isn’t a restaurant, shop, trail, or event.

It’s the sanctuary of home.

The place where I can miss my grandpa.

The place where I can be sad.

The place where I can remember his voice calling me Princess. Or listen to old voice recordings.

The place where I can stay in bed if that’s what today requires.

One year without you, Grandpa.

I still miss you.

I always will.

And I hope when I finally ride that motorcycle, somewhere between the open road and the wind, I’ll feel a little bit like you’re riding with me.