The Expat Eley's

This isn’t a typical post for the content of this blog, but it was sitting heavy on my heart and I wanted to share.

I’ve been slowly finding my way back into writing these past couple of months, trying to carve out moments to sit with my thoughts and put them into words. But this post feels different. It isn’t just about my life in China or the adventures of teaching and traveling–it’s about my heart. It’s about my grandma.

My sweet grandmother passed away this past week. Even typing that sentence feels surreal. She came into my life when I was very young, when my dad met my stepmom, and without hesitation, she took me in as her own. There was never any question. I wasn’t just “her daughter’s stepdaughter”–I was her granddaughter. She made sure I knew that. Her love was easy, natural, unconditional.

Some of my earliest and fondest memories are with her. I remember her taking me to school, those quiet car rides where she would ask me about my day before it had even started. I remember walking to the post office on the college campus where she worked, where I’d get to “help” her sort the mail–feeling like the most important little assistant in the world. And her hugs… they were like warm, soft blankets for the soul. The kind of hugs that made everything, no matter how scary or sad or uncertain, feel okay.

This loss is hard for so many reasons. But one of the hardest parts is grieving from so far away. Living in China has been one of the greatest adventures of my life, but it also means being an ocean away from family during moments like this. It means watching the waves of grief crash over the people I love through a screen, sending words of comfort when I desperately want to just be there. It feels wrong to not be present, to not sit in the same room with my family and share the silence, the tears, the stories–even though I made this choice.

When I said goodbye to her on my last visit home, I knew it would be the final time I’d see her. She was sick, and I had already made my peace with that painful reality. But here’s the thing no one tells you about making peace with something: it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. I chose this life–this path of living and working abroad–and I wouldn’t change that. But that doesn’t make the sting of this goodbye any less sharp.

And yet, when it comes to death, I sometimes feel… numb. My dad passed away four years ago, and in the aftermath of losing him, I think some part of me learned to keep my emotions at a distance. Maybe it’s a way to protect myself. Maybe it’s survival. But even when the tears don’t always come, the ache is there, quiet but deep, like an echo that doesn’t fade.

Grief is strange like that. It’s not linear, and it doesn’t have rules. It sneaks up on you in waves–in the still moments, in the mundane, in the memories you thought you tucked safely away. And that’s okay. I’ve learned that there is no “right” way to grieve. Sometimes you cry. Sometimes you laugh at a memory and then feel guilty for laughing. Sometimes you just feel… nothing at all. And all of it is normal.

If you’re grieving, I hope you know you don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t have to “be strong.” You don’t have to compare your grief to anyone else’s. You are allowed to take your time, to sit in the quiet, to let others hold space for you. You are allowed to honor your loved one in whatever way feels right–whether that’s through tears, through laughter, through writing, through prayer, or even just by carrying them quietly in your heart as you go about your days.

So today, I’m writing this as a way to honor her. To remember her love, her laughter, her unwavering presence in my life. To thank her for stepping into a role she didn’t have to take, and filling it so beautifully that I never doubted for a moment that I belonged.

I don’t know how to end something like this, because grief doesn’t really end. But I do know that my grandma’s love will keep showing up–in the way that I love my own daughter, in the quiet strength I try to carry, in the hugs I give that I hope feel even a fraction as warm as hers.

If you’re walking through loss right now, I hope you know this: love doesn’t go away when someone dies. It changes shape. It lives on in us–in our actions, in our memories, in the way we show up for others the way they once showed up for us.

I love you, Grandma. Thank you for loving me as your own.