Since Aunty Delice passed away, I found myself trying to bury the ache beneath work. Much like with my miscarriages, responses like "She’s in a better place" translated to "Swallow your tears, girl, be happy for her new life with Christ." and have therefore made me feel my feelings are not valid.

This morning, at The Crate, I was burying a wave of grief beneath my work when Dean walked in. “Hello, bringer of joy,” he said warmly, wrapping me in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered fighting back the tears, “my bringer of joy is broken at the moment.”

He didn’t try to fix it. He just held me tighter and stayed a few moments longer. That simple act of presence, without a single word, reached places that condolences could not touch. In that embrace, I felt something holy — grace holding space for my tears.

That silent hug did more for me than all the well-intentioned words since Aunty Delice passed away two weeks ago. Few people know how to simply sit beside sorrow—to hold space for holy tears and weep with those who weep and to recognise that presence itself can be prayer.

Sometimes the deepest comfort is not found in eloquent words but in quiet compassion — in the stillness of a heart that chooses to stay.

There’s a quiet ache that comes from living far away from those you love — an ache that deepens in moments of grief. It’s not only the loss that hurts, but the distance that keeps you from being near when hearts break, when candles are lit, and when laughter mingles with tears in remembrance.

Sometimes, grief feels heavier because you can’t show up with flowers, can’t hold a trembling hand, or whisper comfort face to face. You learn to grieve through screens and prayers, to love across miles that cannot be crossed.Yet even in this distance, love does not fade. Love stretches, adapts, and finds ways to reach the heart — it travels in whispered prayers, in quiet remembrance, in the faithful knowing that connection is never truly severed.

Love doesn’t need to be begged for; it simply shows up. It shows up in a warm coffee placed beside you, in a message that says, “I’m thinking of you,” in a hug that lingers longer than words allow.

Tonight, as we joined the memorial live-stream to celebrate Mom’s life, I realised this is the first time since moving to New Zealand that I could be part of a farewell, even from afar. Though my heart still aches, I’m deeply grateful for the time and heritage that Mom shared — and for the love that continues to bridge the distance between earth and eternity.

The hardest part of grieving across oceans is feeling like an outsider looking in. You watch sacred moments unfold through a screen — the tributes, the tears, the embraces — and your heart aches to reach through and hold someone close. You can’t offer comfort in person; you mourn alone, unseen yet deeply connected.