Let me tell you about the choreography of grief.

It’s 6:47 AM. The coffee maker is gurgling its morning song. You’re moving through the kitchen in that autopilot way we all do before caffeine kicks in, and your hand reaches into the cabinet for mugs.

One for you. And then—without thinking, without deciding, without any conscious thought at all—your hand keeps going.

To his mug.

The one with the chip on the handle that he refused to let you throw away. The one that’s slightly too big and slightly too loud with that obnoxious sports logo you never understood. The one that sat next to yours on the counter every single morning for more years than you want to count right now.

You set it out. Pour the coffee. And then stand there staring at two steaming mugs like you’ve just performed some kind of kitchen magic trick you didn’t mean to learn.

Well, chicken pickles.

Now you’re crying into your coffee at 6:48 AM on a Tuesday, which was definitely not on today’s agenda.

But here’s the thing nobody tells you about these moments—the ones where your body remembers what your brain is trying to forget: they’re not accidents. They’re not signs that you’re “not healing properly” or “stuck in the past” or any of the other helpful observations people like to offer when they see you doing things that make them uncomfortable.

They’re love letters. Written by your hands to your heart.

They’re your muscle memory saying, “Remember when we mattered to someone? Remember when we were part of a morning routine that included another person’s preferences and quirks and terrible coffee-drinking habits?”

They’re proof that love doesn’t just disappear because someone does.

I know the experts say you’re supposed to pack things away when you’re “ready.” Create new routines. Move forward. Let go.

And sure, maybe someday you will. Maybe someday his mug will find its way to the back of the cabinet or into a box marked “donate” or into the hands of a grown child who needs something to remember Grandpa by.

But today is not that day.

Today, you set out his mug because your heart needed to see it there. Because for thirty seconds, your kitchen felt complete again. Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is honor the fact that you’re not ready to stop loving someone just because they stopped breathing.

The grief police aren’t coming for you. There’s no statute of limitations on missing someone. There’s no deadline for when your automatic responses need to catch up with your reality.

You know what there is, though? Permission.

Permission to pour coffee for a ghost and not apologize for it.

Permission to cry over something as simple as ceramic and handle because sometimes simple things carry the weight of everything we’ve lost.

Permission to let your hands remember as long as they need to – without guilt, without a deadline.

Because here’s what I’ve learned from walking this road myself and sitting with hundreds of women who’ve stood exactly where you’re standing: healing isn’t linear, and it’s about as tidy as a tornado in a tool shed.

Sometimes healing looks like packing things away with intention and ceremony. Sometimes it looks like creating new traditions that honor your new life.

And sometimes? Sometimes it looks like setting out his mug on a random Tuesday morning and letting yourself feel every single feeling that comes with it.

None of these responses are wrong. All of them are human.

Your grief doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else. It doesn’t need to follow a timeline or meet someone else’s expectations for how you should be “moving on.”

It just needs to be yours.

So if you’re reading this while staring at two coffee mugs on your counter, wondering if you’re losing your mind or your progress or your grip on reality—you’re not.

You’re just a woman who loved someone enough that your body still makes space for them. You’re someone whose hands remember tenderness even when your heart feels broken.

You’re human. You’re grieving. You’re still here.

And Earthling, that’s more than enough for one Tuesday morning.

The mug can stay as long as you need it to. Your healing doesn’t depend on how quickly you can retrain your reflexes. It depends on how gently you can treat yourself while you figure out what this new life is supposed to look like.

One morning at a time. One mug at a time. One breath at a time.

Even if some of those mornings include an extra cup of coffee that nobody’s going to drink.

Especially then.

Ready to stop judging your grief and start honoring it? Tired of other people’s timelines for your healing? Let’s talk about what it really means to rebuild a life that makes space for both your past and your future.