Sorry for the delay—I’ve spent the past few days hanging out in the wasteland. And when I say that, I mean it quite literally. Sometimes it’s just easier there.

Yesterday, during my session with my psychologist (yes, I do see one—and no, I’m not ashamed of it), she told me that taking a short reality break wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Naturally, it came with the usual caveats about not disappearing entirely into fantasy.

Lately, I’ve been grinding caravans—trying to hit that top-tier reputation with the various factions before the December update drops. According to friends on the test servers, caravans might be disappearing altogether, which means I’m on borrowed time for those sweet rewards.

The next update will reportedly push Fallout 76 content across the Ohio River into, well, Ohio—crossing at Point Pleasant, West Virginia, home of the Mothman Museum. If that name rings a bell, you can thank both Fallout lore and actual history. The Silver Bridge that connects Point Pleasant to Gallipolis collapsed in 1967, and its haunting resemblance to the in-game bridge is part of what makes this game so immersive.

And speaking of immersive, the new storyline features the Ghoul from the Fallout TV series, voiced by none other than Walton Goggins. Needless to say, the community is buzzing.

But enough about Fallout. Back to the real-life grind.

In my last post, I mentioned some speed bumps—little things that pile up until they start to feel like cinderblocks. My therapist, bless her patience, immediately recognized where I was at in the grieving process. She reminded me of something I already knew (and hate to hear): grief doesn’t end. It just changes form.

She said, “You’re doing fine.” I know she meant it. But hearing that the process continues for the rest of your life doesn’t exactly spark joy. We live in an era of instant gratification—click, scroll, delivered—and grief doesn’t play by those rules.

So here’s the real question: when is it okay to give yourself some grace?

We’re brutal to ourselves. Harder, sharper, more unrelenting than anyone else could ever be. I’m no exception. It’s not that I don’t think I deserve grace—it’s just damn hard to grant it.

People sometimes talk to me like what happened is ancient history. They mean well. They see the progress I’ve made, the external signs of “better,” and assume the interior has followed suit. But they don’t live in my head—and thank God for that. It’s unfair to expect others to understand every shadow of your mental landscape. And expecting them to revolve around your pain is, frankly, a bit of an asshole move.

At the end of the day, the only person who can rebuild my foundation is me.

It reminds me of an old Holmes on Homes episode—Mike Holmes helping families recover after loss and bad construction. Canadians, as a rule, seem better at being decent humans (no offense, fellow Americans, but we could use a renovation). Watching those episodes, I realized that every family handled grief differently, and that’s exactly what my therapist has been trying to beat into my head with a metaphorical 2×4: everyone grieves in their own way.

Grace starts with recognizing that truth.

Mom used to call me a “2×4 learner.” Took me years to get the joke. She’d laugh and say, “Don’t worry, honey, I’m one too.” My cousin once told me that saying came from my grandfather, which tracks—most of Mom’s best one-liners did.

I still miss her voice, her simple wisdom, and her uncanny ability to tell me to stop being so damn hard on myself. She’d nail it—no construction pun intended—every single time.

So maybe the lesson is this: no matter how crooked the beams get or how uneven the floor feels, you can always trust your dog and your mom to be with you.