Soft Steps: When the Old Map No Longer Fits
A reflection on grieving the life you thought you’d live — and the quiet courage it takes to begin again without a map.
Hey,
Welcome!
And if this is your first time here, know that this is a place where we move slowly, breathe deeply and honour even the tiniest steps forward.
I’m grateful that you’re here.
I used to carry a quiet map in my head.
Not a perfect plan — just a rhythm I expected life to follow.
Love would come.
Family would form.
Work would become meaningful.
Home would feel warm and shared.
It wasn’t a fantasy.
I’d been taught to expect it if I were kind, good, patient, and responsible.
It felt like the natural reward for staying the course.
So I waited.
I poured into others.
I pursued meaningful work.
I made space.
I believed.
And still… the map never unfolded.
There is grief in that.
Not the loud, dramatic kind — but the kind that undoes your sense of time, self, and belonging.
The kind that whispers: “Was I wrong about everything?”
There’s no funeral for the life you didn’t get to live.
No ceremony for the years you spent holding space for something that never arrived.
But the grief still comes — in waves, in silence, in moments no one sees.
It hits when someone says, “You’ll meet someone soon” —
as if hope hasn’t already worn blisters into your bones.
It hits when the house is too quiet.
When the holidays are too still.
When your body asks:
“Will I never carry life? Will I always carry longing instead?”
It hits when you're trying to start again, but everything inside you says:
“I’ve already waited long enough. I don’t know how to begin again without breaking.”
And then comes the quiet anxiety.
The kind that doesn’t panic… it just hovers.
What if it’s too late?
What if I try and fail again?
What if I’m always alone?
There’s no timeline for how long it takes to rebuild a life after the one you were promised never arrived.
But lately, something has shifted.
I found myself sitting with the parts of me I used to rush past.
The parts I pushed away.
The part of me that I subjugated when it tried to cry out.
The part that was scared.
The part that felt tricked, for following the rules and still ending up here.
The part that is grieving for a body that has been through so much and never felt fully safe.
And instead of judging her,
I listened.
I let myself feel the ache.
I let myself cry and grieve for the version of me who really thought she was doing everything right.
I stopped trying to “fix” her and started asking:
“What do you want, love?”
Even when it took more than I thought I had… I listened.
And then I gave it to myself.
Without shame.
Without performance.
Without proof that it would “work.”
Just presence.
Just softness.
Just one small act of love in a body that is still healing.
That was one of my soft steps.
Not a big leap.
Not a breakthrough.
Just the decision to be with myself, rather than abandon myself again.
And somehow, that helped me remember:
I am still here.
Even in the ache.
Even in the ruins.
Even in the quiet.
And that means:
There is still life in me.
There is still the possibility of beauty — even without a map.
If you're walking through this kind of ache,
if the version of life you waited for slipped away too quietly…
Please know:
You are not broken.
You are not too late.
You are not alone.
You are walking a sacred path,
even if no one around you understands it.
Sometimes, the life we build after the grief
is the most honest thing we’ve ever created.
Thank you for being here with me.
I’m walking slowly, too.
Until next time,
walk gently.
Elizabeth
P.S.
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