Lead with Empathy. Always.

Hello, my friends. I know I am days late on a drop for you. (I am sure you’ve been on the edge of your seat.) Unfortunately, I’ve been posted up in the hospital since last weekend.

My grandma was in the ICU. As the eldest grandchild, I was so very fortunate to get to spend an enormous amount of time with this incredible woman. She has always been one of my closest confidants, my rock, my guide for how to treat others. (Not to brag or anything, but she is now beloved by her whole care team. Yes, she’s even been inviting them to her funeral.)

As I sit here and hold her hand through this brutal phase. I keep thinking about how little we actually talk about this part of life.

The end-of-life part.
The decisions.
The process.
What it actually looks and feels like when you’re in it.

Because it’s A LOT. And that doesn’t even begin to encapsulate the actual feeling.

It’s scary and stressful and dramatic and messy in a way that’s hard to explain until you’re sitting in it.

At the same time, there are these really beautiful moments.

That part has caught me off guard.

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There’s something about being in a hospital room, sitting in the unknown, that strips everything down really fast.

The things that felt big a week ago don’t feel big anymore.

The grudges don’t feel as solid.

The distance between people starts to feel… unnecessary.

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My mom and I haven’t spoken to my aunt in over 15 years.

Fifteen.

It had turned into this massive, awkward, unspoken thing. One of those situations where it just grows over time until it feels too big to fix.

Then this happens. The past goes out the window, and the anger or sadness that was so tied up in that doesn’t feel as heavy.

They showed up for each other.

For their mom.

And it was like something just lifted.

All of that weight, all of that history, just… loosened its grip a little.

Now, it doesn’t mean everything is magically fixed, but it means it does not matter in the same way anymore.

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That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.

How quickly we can come back to each other when something actually matters.

How easily we can choose connection when we need it. (And we really do NEED it.)

How much of what keeps us apart… is more flexible than our brain lets us believe.

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The hospital itself is this strange mix of emotions.

There are moments where you’re just sitting there, completely overwhelmed by the unknown.

And then five minutes later, someone says something ridiculous, and everyone is laughing.

Like belly laughing. (Surprised they didn’t kick our big, obnoxious crew out.)

It happens because you need to.

Because it’s the only way through some of it.

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I feel really lucky, honestly.

Lucky to have a family that shows up like this.

That makes each other laugh.

That sits together in the hard moments instead of trying to avoid them.

Not everyone gets that.

And I’m very aware of it.

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I just keep wishing we didn’t need something like this to remember how to be with each other.

To soften.

To give each other the benefit of the doubt.

To speak a little kinder.

To meet each other where we are instead of where we think they should be.

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The truth is… we’re all going through something.

All the time.

Some of it is just more visible than others.

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I am sharing because my takeaway from all of this is a big fat reminder that we’re all human. We are going through things. I always push to lead with empathy, and this just makes me even more certain that it is the best path.

Life is messy and hard and beautiful in ways I don’t think we give enough space for. Next time you want to argue over a mistake or process gone awry, take a moment to remember there is a real, complicated, live person on the other side of the table.

Now go hold your loved one's hand for me.