Floating, Falling, Becoming: A Story of Loss, Resilience, and Really Awkward Moments

Why discomfort, embarrassment, and grief taught me more than confidence ever could

I used to think being seen meant being chosen. But after losing my mom in college, I realized visibility—and growth—require something much scarier: showing up when you’re unraveling. This is a story about floating through grief, awkward dating app moments, accidental wedgies during runs, and what it really means to grow up and start over.

I used to think being seen meant being picked—by the right friend group, the coach, the boy, the job. But I’ve come to realize that visibility isn't something you wait for. It’s something you choose.

That realization came quietly, sometime after I lost my mom.

There was a stretch of time—maybe a year, maybe longer—where I felt like I was floating through my own life. I’d walk into a room and hope someone would notice me, but not too much. I didn’t want pity, but I also didn’t want to be invisible. I was zombie-walking to class, crying in my car between lectures, smiling at friends and professors while my entire identity quietly disintegrated underneath.

That’s the strange thing about grief—especially when it finds you young.

It teaches you how to keep your face composed so others stay comfortable, even when you’re unraveling on the inside. I didn’t know how to grieve, and grief didn’t really care. It just showed up—uninvited, unpredictable, and all-consuming. No matter how many to-do lists I made or how hard I tried to “be okay,” I couldn’t out-organize the ache. I had no control. And as someone who once color-coded her notebooks for fun, that scared me more than anything.

But I’ve noticed something: the more pain I’ve endured, the more patterns I start to see in life.

The hard seasons teach you how to spot the light.

Because once you’ve tasted the darkness, even an ordinary morning—a good coffee, a deep laugh, a quiet moment—feels electric.

I think that’s why I’ve learned to crave discomfort in little doses. It’s not that I love pain (I’m not that dramatic). But I know now that discomfort usually means something’s happening—something new is forming, even if I can’t see it yet.

Like when I studied abroad in Sydney. I was determined to make it “the best semester ever,” which in my 20-year-old brain translated to: talk to strangers, go on dates, take trains alone, say yes to group dinners even when I was exhausted.

I was so scared to speak up that I once pretended to be texting just to avoid small talk (I know I am not the only one who has done this…). And then a few weeks later, I jumped out of a literal plane to celebrate turning 21. A metaphor? Maybe. Mostly just terrifying.

skydiving for my 21st birthday in Queenstown NZ

---

👟 A quick note before we dive deeper…

I charge a small monthly subscription to support my writing. That support helps me keep showing up—week after week—with words that I hope meet you where you are.

It’s never just about unlocking posts. It’s about believing in the process. Trusting that honest words and shared stories still matter.

If this writing feels like something you need right now, but you’re not in a place to pay, send me a note. I’ll make sure you still receive it.

And if this piece resonates, a tap on the heart is always felt.

---

Discomfort has shown up in bigger ways too. Like saying yes to entrepreneurship after college, even though I had a science degree and no clue how to run or grow a business. I’m now on my fourth job post-grad, which sounds chaotic until you realize each one taught me how to make peace with risk, change, and reinvention.

I used to think uncertainty meant I was doing something wrong. Now I see it as evidence I’m doing something brave.

And in between all of that, I’ve learned the quiet power of connection.

Reaching out just to say you’re thinking of someone, not because you need something.

Letting yourself be seen not in your most polished moments, but your most honest ones.

And look, I’d love to say I handle all of this gracefully. That I lean into growth with poise and wisdom. But the truth is…

Many times, I’ve matched with someone on a dating app, panicked, and deleted the whole thing because I didn’t know how to say hi. Bold start to self-growth.

One time I said “you too” to a waiter who told me to enjoy my meal, and I debated for a solid 10 minutes if I should switch restaurants out of sheer shame.

And I once spent an entire run trying to fix a wedgie through my leggings discreetly. There is no graceful way to do that at an 8-minute pace.

Growth isn’t always glamorous. Sometimes it’s just showing up again the next day, even after an awkward moment or a small failure makes you want to hide. Sometimes it’s learning to laugh at yourself while you figure it out in real time.

Because the truth is, the most resilient people I know aren’t the ones who never get embarrassed. They’re the ones who know how to keep going after.

A Prompt For You

What’s something you’ve been through that now helps you notice the light?

With grace,

EGE