And why that might be the most honest thing that’s happened to you all year.

Let me guess—you’ve got Tupperware stacked to the ceiling and you couldn’t tell a green bean casserole from a tuna noodle if your life depended on it.
Your freezer looks like a contestant on one of those meal prep reality shows, and your kitchen counter has become a graveyard of sympathy cards propped up like tiny tombstones next to wilting flower arrangements that cost more than your electric bill.

Everyone wants to do something when your world implodes. And honey, I get it. Food is the universal language for “I don’t know what to say, but here’s proof I care.” So they bring lasagna. And more lasagna. And that mysterious casserole with the crispy onions on top that nobody ever admits to making but somehow appears at every funeral potluck since 1987.

But here’s what nobody warns you about: the casseroles have an expiration date. And I’m not talking about the sell-by sticker.

One Tuesday, you’ll realize the doorbell hasn’t rung in weeks. The meal train that once ran like clockwork? It’s officially derailed and sitting in someone’s good intentions station, collecting dust.

The texts that used to flood your phone with “How are you holding up?” have dwindled to the occasional emoji heart from your cousin who forgot it’s been three months, not three weeks.

And suddenly, you’re standing in your kitchen—the same kitchen that was once Grand Central Station for grief support—staring into a fridge that’s gone back to its regular programming of leftover takeout and questionable yogurt.

That’s when it hits you: Oh. This is it. This is where I learn to be alone with this.

Now, before you start thinking this is where I’m going to serve up some spiritual platitudes about God’s timing or how everything happens for a reason (spoiler alert: I’m not), let me tell you what I’ve learned from walking this road myself and walking alongside hundreds of other women who’ve been handed this membership card nobody asked for.

The casseroles stopping isn’t a bug in the system. It’s a feature.

I know that sounds harsh. Maybe even cruel. But stick with me.

Because what I’ve discovered—and what every woman I’ve mentored eventually discovers—is that when the external support fades, something else starts to emerge. Something that was always there but got buried under all the well-meaning busy work of other people’s comfort.

Your own voice.
Your own strength.
Your own capacity to sit with the hard stuff without needing it to be wrapped in foil and labeled with cooking instructions.

The casserole phase? That’s survival mode. That’s your people helping you breathe in and out when even that feels impossible. And thank God for that phase, because we need it.

But this phase? This quiet, empty-fridge, nobody-checking-in phase? This is where you discover who you’re becoming.

And just when the silence gets loud enough to echo, you remember:
“I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.” – John 14:18

It wasn’t the casseroles that kept you alive—it was the God who never left the kitchen.

This is where you stop waiting for someone else to nourish you and start learning to feed your own soul.

This is where you realize that grief isn’t something to be fixed with a meal train—it’s something to be lived, honored, and eventually transformed into something that looks a whole lot like wisdom.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me when my fridge went quiet: You’re not being forgotten. You’re being set free.

Free from having to perform gratitude for every covered dish. Free from managing other people’s discomfort with your pain. Free from the pressure to be “doing better” because surely all that support must be helping, right?

You’re free to feel exactly how you feel without a casserole committee keeping score.

And in that freedom—messy and lonely and real as it is—you’ll start to notice things you couldn’t see before. Like how strong you actually are when nobody’s watching. How capable you are of making it through a Tuesday without anyone else’s permission or pity. How your own company isn’t the consolation prize you thought it was.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying the loneliness isn’t real or that you should just buck up and be grateful for the solitude. The ache of feeling forgotten by the world is bone-deep and valid as chicken pickles.

But I am saying this: when the casseroles stop coming, it’s not the end of your support system. It’s the beginning of building one that will actually sustain you for the long haul.

One that doesn’t depend on other people’s availability or attention span.
One that teaches you to nurture yourself with the same tenderness you’d show a friend.
One that helps you discover your own capacity for healing, for growth, for finding meaning in the midst of the mess.

So if you’re in that quiet phase right now—if your doorbell has gone silent and your phone has stopped buzzing with check-ins—I want you to know something.

You haven’t been abandoned. You’ve been invited.

Invited to discover what it means to be your own comfort. To find nourishment that doesn’t come in aluminum pans. To learn that being alone with your grief isn’t punishment—it’s preparation.

Preparation for a life that’s bigger and braver and more authentically yours than any casserole could ever provide.

The meal train has ended, sweet friend. But your real journey? That’s just getting started.

Ready to stop waiting for the next casserole and start building a life that truly nourishes you? I’ve been where you are, and I know the way through. Let’s talk about what comes next.