Have you ever stood in the shower with your eyes open, just letting the water hit your face, and watched how the droplets catch the light? The way the stream breaks into tiny beads on your eyelashes, each one scattering the glow like a thousand miniature stars. It’s such a small, ordinary thing, but sometimes it stops me in my tracks. Maybe because I’m realizing that life is like that, too—light and shadow, pain and beauty, all tangled together in moments that are both fleeting and infinite.
I keep thinking about my mom. How could she give me this much depth, this much capacity to feel, and then leave before she taught me how to navigate it? She left me with this heart that feels like a storm one day and a wide-open sky the next, and I don’t always know when to hit the brakes or when to let myself go. It’s not about managing it, exactly—it’s about finding a way to honor it without letting it wreak havoc. And some days, I just don’t know how.
“Without the pain, gratitude wouldn’t hit so deep.”
Without the moments that break you open, you wouldn’t notice the way the little things fill you up—the unexpected video from a friend that makes you laugh, or a conversation that veers into something ridiculous, like laying on the floor because you’re mad at your pillows. I don’t plan these moments—they just flow. And if I can give more of that to the world—more laughter, more joy—then maybe I’ll be able to look back on my life and know I created something meaningful.
I always think about how angry my mom was when she was dying. It’s not that she did it wrong. It’s that she never got the chance to figure out how to leave this world without carrying all that anger and fear. That makes me so sad. I hope I gave her a little joy in those last days—like the time I sat at her bedside and had her swipe for me on a dating app, just to distract her from what was happening. Life is so layered. And when you can find those moments of joy—those simple, human sparks—that’s where purpose lives. That’s where meaning hides. Both of my parents asked me once, What’s the point? What’s the purpose? What’s the meaning of life?
“Death doesn’t just hover quietly; it breathes down your neck, warm and close, waiting for you to notice.”
I think I started to understand the answer in Chicago, somewhere between mile 32 and the bathtub I collapsed into after vomiting for nearly 20 hours straight. I was in kidney failure, shaking hands with something I wasn’t ready to meet. Death doesn’t just hover quietly; it breathes down your neck, warm and close, like it’s standing right there in the kitchen waiting for you to notice its presence. And the terrifying thing? You do. You feel the weight of it, the truth of it, and suddenly life feels so fragile, so fleeting, and so unbearably beautiful.
“It’s only when we stand close enough to death that we start to see life for what it is—a fragile, breathtaking collision of pain and beauty.”
I’ve learned that gratitude can hurt, that joy can feel like breaking, and that even the smallest moments—light hitting water, laughter I didn’t expect—are enough to remind me that I’m still alive. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s the purpose. To keep finding those moments, even when they hurt. Especially when they hurt.
© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
If this piece resonates, share it with someone who might need this reminder—to see the light between the droplets, even when life feels heavy.
Thanks Kimberly,
I knew that day that I met you at the Red Cross donating platelets that I just meant a very special person. God works in mysterious ways and sometimes brings people together at critical times of their life. That being said, thank you for taking the time to response back to me. I never did any blogging, but I think it’s differently worth try. Life is a dance, you learn as you go!
Hi Kimberly,
This resonates with my past year where a lost my sister-in-law and my father, 91 years young. My father passed on September 11th, 2024 and was so close to getting out of Rehabilitation for a broken Leg, Unfortunately, we lost a long hard struggle. But during the five months of going thru rehab with my Dad I got to spend some quality time with him. However, it had left me emotionally drained. When, my Dad was in the hospital, he said to me, please do not let me die in the hospital, so I told him that I would not let if die along in the hospital. So I got him into Hospice over a weekend, which was almost impossible; but I was determined to honor my father wishes. I got him home on the following Monday, and we got to say are goodbye’s in his home. I truly believe that he knew he made it home before going to her internal home. Dad also, latest 72 hours at home before he passed.
During that same time period I lost my Sister-in-law Nancy who was 87 years old and when she went into the hospital we found out that she had advanced cancer, Stage 4 and was not going to be able to receive cancer treatments. She made it home and passed away within 72 Hours. Before Nancy, was released from the Hospital, see was asking for me. We kept on saying my name… saying where is Ray … so when I found out, I immediately rushed to the hospital to say my goodbye, I asked the entire family “everyone” to please leave her room and I held hear hands in mine and told her that I loved her and it that I she looked at me and smiled. After , I left the room she closed her eyes and then fell into a comma. Nancy would not give up until she got to see me and say her goodbyes.
Sorry for the long winded reply, but this truly is unbelievable therapy for me. Okay for I am crying, but I feel so much better that I got to share this with you Kimberly. Thank you for being you!
First and foremost—wow. You are not long-winded. What you went through isn’t for the faint of heart. I started this blog from such a personal place, just trying to make sense of everything I was going through—and I honestly didn’t expect it to land the way it’s landing. It’s been raw, personal, and honestly kind of scary to share. So to see people connecting with it, feeling it, showing up? That means more to me than I can explain. I’m honored you’re here. Welcome to the journey.