Where Did My MoJo Go?
Some days, my Mo & Jo don’t storm out.
They don’t slam anything.
They just gather themselves gently, tip their hats on the way past, and slip out the side door like they’ve stepped away for a breath of fresh air and forgotten to come back.
No warning.
No note.
No sense of when they might return.
One day, I’m moving through the familiar rhythm of things, writing a little, planning a little, answering what needs answering. The next day, I’m standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding something I didn’t mean to pick up, wondering what I came in here for in the first place.
If you know, you know.
And since March 21st, the day our sweet Rosie left us so suddenly after that heartbreaking colic episode, I’ve noticed something very real:
Grief has a quiet way of escorting your Mo & Jo right out the door with it.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just … gone.
This is what grief can look like when motivation quietly slips away for a while.
The Quiet Shape of Grief
Before March 21st, I understood grief in the thoughtful way most of us do.
After March 21st, I began understanding it in a lived way.
The everyday way.
Standing still with a dish towel in your hands for a longer-than-expected time.
Grief doesn’t always arrive as tears.
Sometimes grief doesn’t look the way we expect it to.
Sometimes it looks like starting something and not quite finishing it.
Opening a message and leaving it to answer later.
Moving through the day while part of you is still standing somewhere else entirely.
Forgetting what day it is.
Doing what needs doing while your heart quietly lingers behind you for a while.
It can feel confusing when this happens.
It can even feel like you’re falling behind somehow.
But you’re not.
This isn’t laziness.
It isn’t a lack of discipline.
It’s your nervous system doing something very wise and very human.
It’s trying gently and carefully to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense yet.
And that kind of work happens quietly.
Most people can’t see it from the outside.
But it takes more energy than we realize while we’re living through it.
When “Going Through the Motions” Is the Work
There’s a tender stretch of time after loss when life keeps moving, but you don’t quite recognize yourself inside it yet.
We get up and still make a cuppa tea and brew a pot of coffee.
Our pup still needs walking.
Shadows and light still move across the kitchen floor the same way they always have.
Morning light still arrives through the white pines whether we’re ready for it or not.
And somehow you are still doing the things you normally do…
just more slowly
more quietly
more gently than before
That isn’t failure.
That’s transition.
It’s what it looks like when your heart is doing important work behind the scenes while the rest of life keeps asking you to show up anyway.
Letting Go of the Productivity Story
We live in a world that quietly suggests we should return to normal quickly.
As though normal were a switch we could flip.
As though grief respected calendars.
As though love didn’t leave echoes behind it.
But the truth is, there are seasons when productivity is not the invitation.
Presence is.
Breathing is.
Getting dressed and meeting the day as you can is.
Answering one message is.
Standing still long enough to feel a memory pass through, instead of pushing it away.
These are steady things.
And steady things carry us forward when Mo & Jo are clearly vacationing somewhere warmer than New Hampshire in early spring.
When Motivation Goes Missing
Sometimes it isn’t sadness that slows us down.
Sometimes it’s simply the absence of momentum.
The absence of spark.
The absence of the familiar inner rhythm that normally carries us along without effort.
That’s what I mean when I say my Mo & Jo have left the building.
They’re not gone forever.
They’re just … unavailable for comment right now.
And in moments like that, the kindest thing we can do is stop expecting ourselves to move at full speed while our hearts are clearly walking instead of running.
Sometimes walking is a brave pace.
Five Gentle Ways to Keep Moving on Heavy Days
When motivation slips away, especially after a loss, it helps to create small, nurturing places to stand inside.
Not a rigid structure.
A kind structure.
You might try:
Choosing one anchor task. Fold the laundry. Answer one message. Sweep the porch. Let that be enough for now.
Step outside for a minute or two. Even cold New England air can steady something inside us faster than we expect.
Light something that signals presence. A candle. Incense. Palo santo. A quiet signal to your nervous system: I am still here.
Set a five-minute timer. Five minutes is surprisingly powerful on days when Mo & Jo are negotiating from a distance.
Speak to yourself gently. The way you would speak to someone you love who was hurting.
Because you deserve that same kindness, too.
Waiting for Mo & Jo to Find Their Way Back
Here’s what I’m learning right now:
Motivation returns.
Energy returns.
Clarity returns.
But rarely on a schedule we would choose.
Sometimes they come back the same quiet way they left.
One finished task.
One clearer thought.
One ordinary morning that suddenly feels lighter than the ones before it.
Until then, if your own Mo & Jo have wandered off for a while, it’s okay to move gently.
It’s okay to go through the motions.
It’s okay if “enough” looks smaller than usual right now.
Especially after loving someone as deeply as Rosie.
Because continuing even slowly, even imperfectly … is still continuing.
And around here, we count that. Every single day.
With love from this slower, tender season of the heart, Judy
©️2026 Musing by Judy Gallauresi