Karmic Chronicles: Grief, Growth, and the Winter That Tried Me

There are years that unfold gently… and then there are years that come in swinging like they’re trying to knock the crown off your head. 2026, so far, has felt like the latter.

February arrived carrying both ice and fire: the coldest temperatures Northern Maine has seen in a while, the kind that makes your bones feel like glass – and the unexpected heartbreak of losing my grandmother. A woman built out of grit and gentleness, who can love you and scold you in the same breath. Her loss cracked something open in me. A soft, sacred ache. A reminder that grief is just love, forced to find a new place to live.

And just as I was trying to navigate that emotional first… my pellet stove says, “You know what? I quit” Because why wouldn’t it?

If you’re going to be tested, the universe might as well go for the full dramatic arc, right?

So there I was – holding grief in one hand and a space heater in the other, wrapped in blankets like a depressed burrito – trying to convince myself that I could, in fact, survive the absolute circus of the past few weeks.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect:

Something mystical happened in the middle of all that chaos: A reminder that resilience isn’t born in comfort – it’s forged in the cold.

The Winter That Tried It

Let’s be brutally honest for a second: this winter didn’t just test me – it tried to end my entire bloodline.

It all started right at the beginning of the year, when the universe looked at my life and said,

“Let’s see how many appliances we can emotionally damage her with.”

First, the water heater blew – not a small drip, not a cute little leak – but a full-on aquatic disaster. Water everywhere.A surprise indoor lake. A chaotic baptism no one asked for.

And because one catastrophe is never enough, the leaking water caused the pipes to freeze, locking up the water system like it was punishing us for existing. My fiancé, bless his determined soul, ended up re-plumbing the entire home like a man on a mission. We were basically living inside a DIY episode where the stakes were survival.

Just when we thought we were catching a breath?

The drains froze.

Because of course they did. This house really said, “New year, new problems!”

And then – THEN – just when I thought the chaos had reached its grand finale… the pellet stove decided to join the rebellion.

Picture it:

Middle of the coldest month. (-20F)

Northern Maine temperatures colder than a narcissist’s heart. And suddenly the one thing standing between me and becoming a human popsicle just… quits.

I stood there, wrapped in blankets like a highly irritated burrito, looking at the pellet stove like:

“You’re supposed to be the stable one in this relationship.”

At this point, our house wasn’t just a home – it was a battleground.

Everything that could freeze, froze.

Everything that could break, broke.

Everything that could push me to the edge, shoved.

But here’s the wild part:

I survived every one of those moments.

Not gracefully…. but fierce.

The winter tried it – absolutely tried it – but I tried harder.

The Alchemy of Grief

Grief is strange magic.

It arrives uninvited, sits heavy in your chest, and whispers stories you weren’t ready to hear. Losing my grandmother at the beginning of February wasn’t just a heartbreak – it was a shift in the spiritual landscape of my life.

She wasn’t just family.

She was history.

She was softness and strength braided together.

She was the king of woman whose love settled into your bones.

When she passed, it felt like winter inside my ribcage – a cold I couldn’t outrun. And yet, in that hollow space, something sacred began to stir. Tried has a way of breaking you open just wide enough for the light to get in.

In the quiet moments – when the house was cold, when the pellet stove was down, when I felt the weight of everything sinking into me – I swear I could feel her around me. Not in a dramatic, Hollywood ghost way. But in that subtle, grandmother way:

A warmth in the room. A sudden memory that felt like a message. A thought that wasn’t quite my own whispering, “Keep going.”

Grief reshapes you. It reorders what matters. It strips away the noise and hands you truth.

And the truth for me was this:

I am allowed to hurt.

I am allowed to rest.

I am allowed to miss her in every small place she used to exist in my life.

But I am also allowed – even called – to rise.

Her passing didn’t dim my light; it changed its direction. It softened parts of me I didnt realize had gone hard.

It reminded me that love doesn’t leave – it transforms.

This winter has been cold, but grief taught me this:

Even in the deepest frost, love keeps its flame.

The Mystic Spark That Survived It All

Here’s the thing no one tells you about being “spiritual” to “in tune” or “a witch walking her path”:

Your magic doesn’t disappear when life gets hard. It just gets quieter – sharper – distilled.

And somewhere between frozen pipes, grief-heavy mornings, and a house that seemed hell-bent on chaos, I realized something important:

My spark never went out. Not even close.

Even on the days I was so emotionally wrung out I could barely think… Even when I was wrapped in blankets, surviving off stubbornness and space heaters…

Even when February felt like it was piling with heaviness on top of heaviness… something inside me refused to dim.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t the sexy, crystal-charged, Pinterest-worthy kind of magic. It was a whisper – a pulse – a soft, glowing ember in my chest that said:

“Im still here. And so are you.”

I still felt the pull of the moon each night, even when all I saw was cloud cover.

My crystals didn’t lose their shine; they just sat with me in the dark. My altar – simple, messy, imperfect – held its own quiet vigil.

Even my intuiting, exhausted as she was, kept nudging me:

You’ve survived worse.

You’re not done.

This is transformation discussed as chaos.

And honestly? It felt like my grandmother had a hand in that too. Like she was adding her energy to that little spark, keeping it alive while I gathered the strength to tend it myself again.

Magic isn’t about perfection or constant positivity.

It’s not about floating above your problems like some celestial fairy. Real magic – the lived, gritty kind – is forged in moments like these:

When your heat dies but your hope doesn’t.

When tried cracks you open but doesn’t hollow you out.

When life hits hard but your soul hits back harder.

My spark never left me.

It just shifted – styled deeper, into the part of me that knows I can handle far more than I ever wanted to sign up for.

This wasn’t the winter that stole my magic. This was the winter that proved it.

Rising Anyway

There comes a point – somewhere between emotional exhaustion and spiritual stubbornness – where you stop asking, “Why is this happening to me?” and start saying “Alright. Watch me rise anyway.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

Maybe it was grief carving me into someone new. Maybe it was the chaos facing my hand. Maybe it was the fire in me refusing to die out, even when the actual heater did.

Or maybe it was all of it stacked together – the cosmic cocktail that turns a woman into a force.

This winter pushed me to my edge. It shoved me into shadows I didn’t want to revisit. It stripped away comfort, routine, and the illusion of control. But what surprised me most was that every time life knocked me down, I found myself standing back up faster, stronger, and with more clarity than before.

Because rising doesn’t always look like triumph. Sometimes rising looks like:

• Getting out of bed even when your heart aches.
• Making coffee in a cold kitchen because routine is an anchor.
• Laughing at the absurdity of one more thing breaking.
• Letting yourself cry without apologizing for it.
• Holding your sobriety close like the sacred flame it is.
• Choosing healing even when it feels inconvenient.
• Trusting that you are not being punished – you are being reshaped.

Every time something went wrong, I found myself leveling up emotionally, spiritually, mentally. Not because I wanted to – but because life left me no other choice but growth.

And here’s the truth that settled into my bones somewhere along the way:

Resilience isn’t about becoming unbreakable.

It’s about becoming unshakable.

Rising anyway means embracing every scar, setback, tear, and triumph. It means continuing even when you’re exhausted. It means rebuilding, rewiring, and reclaiming your power one breath at a time.

I didn’t just survive this season – I transformed in it.

This winter may have tried to bury me. But it forgot one thing: I grow roots in the dark.

What This Season Taught Me

If winter was my teacher this year, then the lessons come wrapped in frostbite, inconvenience, grief, stubborn miracles, and a whole lot of spiritual attitude. But every challenge carved something into me – something I needed, even if I didn’t want it.

Here’s what this season taught me:

1. Hardship Doesn’t Mean You’re Failing – It Means You’re Evolving.

When everything kept breaking, freezing, leaking, quitting, or demanding attention, it wasn’t a sign that I was cursed or unlucky.

It was life forcing me out of old cycles – pushing me into growth I wasn’t choosing my own.

Sometimes the universe removes comfort so you can discover your strength.

2. Grief Is Not an Ending – It’s a Transformation.

Losing my grandmother cracked me open, but it also softened me. It reminded me that love isn’t gone; it’s just shifted. Her pretense hasn’t left – it’s woven itself differently into my days. Grief didn’t make me emptier; it made me deeper.

3.You Don’t Appreciate Heat Until You Don’t Have It.

I will never take a warm house for granted again.

Ever.

I have earned the right to dramatically sigh with gratitude every time the pellet stove kicks on. And if that’s not character development, I don’t know what is.

4. My Home May Be Chaotic – But My Love Isn’t.

Through frozen pipes, re-plumbing, flooded floors, broken drains, and a rebellious pellet stove, my fiancé showed up every time. Not perfectly, but with heart, with effort, with grit.

That kind of loyalty is magic.

The kind of partnership is alchemy.

5. Even My Smallest Spark is Stronger Than a Season of Storms.

On the days I thought I was at my limit, my spirit whispered, “No. We keep going.”

And I realized just how resilient the human heart is – especially when it’s held together with stubborn hope and witchy willpower.

6. Resting Is not Weakness – It’s strategy.

There were days I had nothing left to give. So I didn’t. And instead of fighting it, I let myself rest. Heal. Feel.

My body isn’t a machine. My mind isn’t a battlefield. Sometimes survival looks like stillness.

7. Magic Doesn’t Disappearin Chaos – It Adapts.

My craft changed this winter. It became quieter, gentler, more internal. More like breathing magic than performing it.

And that’s okay.

There is as much power in surviving a storm as there is lighting a candle.

8. I Am Stronger Than I Thought – And Softer Than I realized.

This winter didn’t destroy me. It revealed me. It showed me that my fire is real, even if it flickers. It showed me that my softness and tenderness can coexist in the same heart.

A Final Whisper to February

February…

you were a storm I didn’t see coming.

You arrived with grief in your hands, cold in your breath, the challenges tucked under your coat like secrets waiting to be spilled. You showed me loss, you showed me chaos, you showed me just how quickly life can tilt without warning.

But you also showed me something else – something deeper, something sacred.

You showed me that I can bend without breaking. That I can shake, cry, crumble, freeze, and still rise. That even in the darkest season, my spirit refuses to go quiet.

You tried me.

Oh, you tried it.

But I am not the girl winter can swallow whole. I am not the woman who disappears when life gets heavy. I am the one who grows roots in ice and lights candles in the dark.

I am the one who rises barefoot from the frost.

So here’s my whisper to you, February – my closing truth:

Thank you.

Not because your lessons were gentle. Not because your timing was kind. But because you handed me the hard things that revealed the strongest parts of me.

You reminded me of my resilience.

You carved the shape of my magic.

You softened the edges around my heart.

And you gave me every reason to keep becoming.

I step out of this month changed – not defeated… but defined.

Grief walked with me.

Cold tested me.

Chaos challenged me.

But my fire?

My fire never went out.

So take your frost, your test, your storms – and leave me with the woman you forced me to become.

Because she is stronger.

She is wiser.

She is unshakeable.

And she is ready for whatever dawn comes next.

Dedication

For my grandmother –

the woman with the quick wit, the golden hands, and the laugh that could warm a room faster than any pellet stove could.

You were talented in ways that can’t be taught – the kind of talent that lived in your fingertips, your stories, your timing, your presence. You could turn an ordinary moment into something unforgettable with nothing but a joke, a smirk, or one of your perfectly placed one-liners.

You had a way of making people feel lighter just by walking into the room. A way of turning struggle into humor, and pain into something we could breathe through.

A way of reminding us that life is meant to be lived – fully, fiercely, and with laughter that echoes long after your gone.

Thank you for every lesson wrapped in humor, every moment wrapped in love, every memory wrapped in your magic.

Your spirit lives in the stories we tell, in the jokes we still repeat, and in the laughter that slips out when we least expect it – the kind that feels like you’re right there beside us.

This chapter is for you.

Every word, every truth, every rise-from-the-ashes moment. You taught me how to survive with grace, how to endure with humor, and how to keep my spark burning even through the coldest winters.

I love you.

I miss you.

And I’ll keep your laughter alive in everything I do.

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