It's just not the same

Navigating transitions when you'd rather it just all remain like it has always been

I’m writing this from Rocky Point — a small rocky peninsula in Tampa Bay where I have started coming every year to write, feel the sun, and slow time. It's easy. Seven minutes from the airport and I settle onto a balcony that becomes my world for a few days. Most meals are taken overlooking the water. Pelicans dive with military grade percision and sometimes a pod of dolphins arcs past in a way that makes me feel like I'm wittnessing something sacred, reminding me that grace has a habit of showing up unannounced.

When I need human energy, I wander over to the beach bar across the harbor called Whiskey Joe's. It has $1.50 oysters at happy hour and rum runners strong enough to only need one. It’s simple, familiar, and oddly comforting. A place to be alone without feeling lonely.

But this year something was different.

The Godfrey, the hotel next door where I stayed on my first visit to Tampa, is gone — or rather, what remains of it is unrecognizable. It was never fancy, but it it was on the water and it had one of those swim up bars and lots of sun. I spent long afternoons by its pool writing and napping until the reggae band started playing and the sun sank low on the horizon. I loved that pool. It held so many quiet afternoons, small revelations, and a lots of good writing and good memories.

The last hurricane brought the already limping Godfrey to it's final end. The wind tore off the sign. The pool sits dry and cracked. Nature is reclaiming what I once thought of as my tradition.

Standing there, I felt that familiar ache — the tug of wishing things would stay the same, of wanting the world to hold still for just a minute. Change always comes, and almost always without asking permission. And yet, when I looked at the empty pool, something in me whispered: it's ok to grieve - that's part of growing. It's ok to grieve the things lost things that mattered, even if they were small. It's ok to grieve the afternoons that won’t return. Grieve the version of yourself who once rested there.

Because here’s the truth: to get ready for what is coming, you must take a season to grieve what was.

Why Grief Matters in Times of Change

We tend to think of grief only when someone dies, but we grieve all kinds of losses:

• The familiar rhythm of a job that no longer fits

• A relationship that grew quieter or more distant

• A church that changed more than you expected

• A chapter of life you didn’t realize was ending

We grieve places too — the rooms where we laughed, the landscapes that held us, the pools where we learned to rest. Anything that formed us becomes part of us, and letting go requires tenderness.

Grief is not a sign we’re resisting change. Grief is how we make room for what comes next.

When Change Finds You Anyway

If you are standing by your own empty pool — if you are watching some part of your life fade, shift, or disappear — here are a few gentle ways to navigate what’s next.

1. Name what you’re losing.

Don’t minimize it. Don’t rush it. Let yourself say, This mattered to me. Grief begins with honesty.

2. Honor the version of you who lived there.

Every place, relationship, or season shapes us. Bless it. Thank it. Let it be part of your story

without needing it to be your future.

3. Make space for what is emerging.

You don’t have to love the new thing yet. You just have to make a little room. Hold the moment with curiosity instead of judgment.

4. Create small rituals of continuity.

For me, it’s this peninsula — this balcony, this water, the pelicans, the oysters. Find your version of that: something steady that helps you feel grounded while the rest shifts.

5. Let others walk the road with you.

Change is easier in good company.Tell someone you trust what you’re carrying. Let them hold a corner of the load.

6. Be patient with the timeline.

Healing and adjustment move at the speed of tenderness, not efficiency. Give yourself permission to arrive slowly.

As I watch the sun slide down behind the bay tonight, I’m reminded that the Godfrey I loved is gone, but this rocky bit of earth that held me still welcomes me. The wind still carries the scent of salt. The water still glitters in the sunrises and sunsets I get to enjoy with my coffee or rum.

Something new will rise here — maybe not another hotel, maybe not another band by the pool — but something.

And something new is rising in you too. Even if you can’t see it yet. Even if you’re not ready to welcome it. Even if you’re still grieving the old sign that blew away in the storm.

Change can hurt, yes. But it can also heal. And you - you are allowed to do both at once.