Friday Wins: Seven Weeks, Milestones, and a Space for Grief

Seven weeks.
One healing shoulder.
A few sacred milestones.
And a new space for grief, hope, and honest healing.

This week, I raised my arm in celebration (and yes—with a small weight in hand, writing the alphabet above me in physical therapy).

Some weeks bring progress. Others bring perspective.
This one brought both—a milestone in physical healing, a quiet memory of a pilgrimage to buy flowers two years ago as things were changing dramatically, and other sacred moments that offered clarity and redemption.
Moments that reminded me: healing is layered, and sometimes the deeper work is in what those milestones reveal

Here’s a Friday win…a few milestones, and a wink I didn’t expect.

Seven weeks post-injury.
Several weeks of showing up to physical therapy, even on the hard days.
Seven weeks of showing up and advocating for myself.
Several weeks of working to heal—not just my shoulder, but a big part of my heart, too.

Today at PT, another patient said, “Wow, you’re doing so well!”
She told me she was recovering from a frozen shoulder.
She asked if I had surgery. I explained the dislocation, the impact break, and the tear and that it was only seven weeks—she was surprised.

She shared her frustration—feeling like she wasn’t far enough along, even though she hadn’t had an injury and had started earlier. I looked at her and gently said, “Keep going. The healing will come.”

I quietly then whispered (to myself) sometimes we have to push through the pain.

My physical therapist (without hearing me) said, “Most people don’t like to push through pain that’s why you are doing so well.”

Isn’t that the story of my life with my shoulder—and with grief? As a widow, I have had to learn how to push through pain to keep going.

And even though I already knew how far I had come, I needed to hear that affirmation. Sometimes we all need to be reminded how far we’ve come. I needed to know the work I’ve done was noticed—because I’ve been working hard. Focused. Intentional. Determined.

Persistent—for myself, and for my healing.

After years of caregiving—supporting my late husband through his cancer journey, and walking alongside my daughter’s progressive hearing loss—I’m finally tending to my healing. And not just the physical part.

April is a difficult month.

It holds the memory of Jon’s final days in hospice and the sacred, shattering moment of his passing.
This week, Holy Week and this month mark moments that live in every fiber of my being.

And yet…this week also marked another big milestone, not just my shoulder.

After a year of searching for the right specialist and years of waiting for the right time, my daughter received her new cochlear implants. It’s a miracle how this all came together and it’s timing and ease. We had put it off too long—always caring for something or someone else first, including our grief.

This week, Sophia walked into that appointment alone—for the first time in 17 years since she was first diagnosed with progressive hearing loss at 8 years old.

For so many reasons, this is a huge milestone.

That moment held so much. Gave us so much hope.
Some details are only for us. The Redeemer knows our hearts, answers our prayers.

I was often called a “helicopter mom” when it came to her hearing loss journey.
Not true. I am a mom and an advocate. My role as a mom was often misunderstood when I had to step in for what was necessary, healthy, and safe in light of her needs. A story for another day.

After years of experience, I’m the mom who walks into exam rooms and knows what to ask.
The kind who teaches her children to speak up in medical environments—
because she had to learn to do the same as a child herself (in so many moments), sometimes for her mom, for her daughter and other children and for their dad.

The kind who has made sure voices were heard—when systems failed, or when compassion was withheld.

Speaking of lacking compassion—someone once tried to comfort me during my daughter’s hearing loss journey by saying: “Well, at least it’s not brain cancer.”

Oof.
I wonder what they would say now, given our journey with brain cancer.

Here’s what I’ve learned: It’s always better to avoid the “at least” statements. When someone is walking through crisis, challenge, or loss—they don’t need perspective. They need presence.

They need an advocate.

If you ever need a medical or grief advocate, I might be your girl. (Well…not right now.) I’m still healing. I’m still taking time to show up for myself. But I’ve got a heart full of stories and lessons worth sharing on those subjects.

Being an advocate for someone who cannot speak for themselves isn’t about control—It’s about dignity, compassion, solutions, and truth. I’ve learned that through lived experience, through my Master’s in Special Education, and through decades of showing up for others.

But speaking up for myself? And caring for myself?
That’s something I had to learn how to do—a side effect of being a caregiver and a widow, maybe even a mom…and a recovering people-pleaser.

Because I no longer have someone to speak for me.
No one to soften the blow.
No husband’s steady voice beside mine to speak the hard truth for me.
No advocate.

There were days I wasn’t sure if I had anything left to give—to myself or anyone else.

But the steady hand I once offered to others?
It was made weak in a devastating injury.
But that same hand/shoulder was strong long before it was dislocated and torn.
And that strength—it’s still there.
Now being poured back into my own healing.
Even when I’m tired. Even when it still hurts. I’m learning to trust that showing up counts.

Healing doesn’t demand perfection. Just presence. Just showing up.

heather lebano

Because healing doesn’t demand perfection.
Just presence.
Just showing up.

With God on my shoulder, and Jon in my heart, I keep showing up.
My kids—and those closest to me—they keeping cheer me on.

You matter.
You are healing.
You are not alone.

This space is for those learning how to tend to themselves, too.

That reminder landed when I needed it most.
So this Friday, I celebrate a win—or two.
Not just because of how far I’ve come physically—
But because I’m learning to advocate for me now, too.

And that?
That is sacred ground.

Seven weeks.
Almost two years.
A lifetime of learning to keep going and healing—with love, with faith, and with the quiet strength I carry from those who shaped me, stayed close to me and helped me shoulder the burden when I needed it most.

And maybe it’s no accident…
That today—a day that marks a quiet, sacred, and difficult pilgrimage I took two years ago—
a day that brought me face to face with both Jon’s Calvary and my own—
I walked past those white hyacinths blooming in my garden.

I found them that day.
Delicate and fragrant, like a breath of beauty in the midst of sorrow.
They came home with me, were planted in the earth—
and now, two years later, they’re blooming again.

Blooming on a day I am honoring my healing, showing up for myself, embracing peace and remembering.

A soft wink from heaven.
A love note from Jon.
A quiet reminder that healing keeps going… and so do I.

And so can you.
Keep going.

Because sometimes the softest signs are the ones that remind us we’re exactly where we need to be.

If you’re walking through your own grief or healing—physical, emotional, or something no one else sees—
I hope this gives you permission to pause, breathe, and keep going.

This space is for those still learning how to tend to themselves, too.

I’d love to hear what your “Friday win” looks like this week.
Even the smallest steps matter.

Speaking of Friday Wins…

This week, I raised my arm in celebration (and yes—with a weight in hand, reaching above me),
a healing shoulder marking seven weeks of progress.
Seven weeks of healing.
Sophia’s new cochlear implants.
Rue, the puppy, coming when she’s called. Puppy recall is so huge.
And something tender and brave—

My son quietly launched @Space4Grief on Instagram, a place for young adults to share their grief experiences with honesty and heart.

Watching my children take their own steps toward healing reminds me:
Healing doesn’t just happen to us—it happens through us.
When we keep going.
When we create safe spaces.
When we walk each other home through the hard stuff.

I’ll be sharing more about his space soon, in case it helps someone you love. Click the graphic and go follow along.

When we keep going.
When we create safe spaces.
When we walk each other home through the hard stuff.

heather Lebano