“Don’t sweat the small stuff, and it’s all small stuff.”
My husband Ted and I have said it to each other for decades, a reminder, a mantra, a shorthand for perspective. Lately, though, it’s felt less like a saying and more like a truth carved into us by experience.
We were driving the other day, half-listening to an interview with actor Jeremy Renner. He was talking about his near-fatal snowplow accident, the moment he realized he was dying, the way everything sharpened in those final seconds, and how surviving it has changed the way he sees the world. What matters. Who matters. What he’ll never waste time on again.
It got quiet in the car. Then Ted said, almost to himself, “After Tony died, I never saw the world the same again.” He was twenty when he lost his brother. Sixty-one now. And that shift, where everything unimportant suddenly feels paper-thin, is still with him. I knew exactly what he meant. After my parents passed, the little arguments, the unfinished phone calls, the moments I wasted being annoyed or distracted, they all came rushing back. And I would give anything, truly anything, to go back and hug them again. To sit with them a little longer. To let all the noise go.
As a midwife, I see this same transformation in my clients, the ones who’ve lost a baby, had a miscarriage, faced the terror of not knowing if they’d carry to term. Grief is a ruthless teacher. But it does teach. And what it teaches, if we’re willing to learn it, can reshape our lives.
This article is about that moment of clarity. That sudden awareness that most of what we stress about is not the stuff we’ll remember. Not the stuff we’ll wish we’d done differently. It’s about what loss shows us about love, and what’s left when we finally let the small stuff go.
What Grief Does to the Brain (and the Heart)
Grief doesn’t just hit you emotionally; it changes you physically. It changes how you think, how you feel, even how you make decisions. I’ve felt it in my own body after loss, that foggy, raw, bone-deep ache. But there’s something else too, something harder to explain until you’ve lived through it: a kind of clarity. A sharpening.
Researchers have actually studied this. When someone is grieving, their brain responds almost like it’s in danger. The part of the brain that deals with pain, the same part that lights up when we break a bone, also lights up when we lose someone we love. It’s why heartbreak can feel so physical. It is physical.
But here’s the strange thing: many people start to see the world differently in the middle of all that pain. The small stuff fades. The to-do list doesn’t scream quite as loud. The old arguments don’t echo the way they used to. You stop wasting time on things that don’t matter. It’s too costly, not because you suddenly became enlightened, but because your brain, heart, and whole being know the truth.
Grief forces your soul to declutter. Suddenly, you know exactly who you want to call. And who you don’t. You know what’s worth holding onto. And what you’re ready to lay down.
When Grief Becomes Growth
As painful as grief is, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, it can also grow something in us we didn’t expect. Psychologists call it post-traumatic growth, which is a fancy way of saying: pain can make us softer, stronger, and wiser, if we let it.
Not right away. Not in some magical overnight way. But over time, people who’ve gone through real loss often describe a shift. They start to care more deeply. Love more intentionally. Forgive more easily. They laugh at things that used to bother them. They cry at things they never used to notice.
Researchers have found that people often experience five big changes after a loss:
- They appreciate life more deeply.
- They get closer to the people they love.
- They open up to new paths or possibilities.
- They discover inner strength they didn’t know they had.
- They wrestle with big questions, and sometimes, find big peace.
I see this all the time in my midwifery work. A mother who’s had a miscarriage may come into her next pregnancy not just nervous, but wise. She doesn’t care about Instagram-perfect nurseries or birth plan bragging rights. She wants to hold her baby, safe and breathing. She wants presence, not performance. And she’s not afraid to say no to things that steal her peace.
But this kind of growth only happens when we let grief do its work, when we stop stuffing it down, when we stop pretending we’re fine. The clients who fall apart when they need to, who scream, sob, and fall to their knees, are often the ones who later stand the strongest. They carry grief like a scar, not a wound. It’s closed, but it’s real. And it keeps them grounded in what matters.
At the Bedside: Where S#!t Gets Real!
When you sit beside someone who’s dying, the small stuff evaporates. I’ve been at many bedsides as a midwife, but it’s the personal ones that haunt me in the best and worst ways. I sat beside my mother in her final days, and even with the complicated history between us, I remember one thing most clearly: she was happy I was there. That still settles in my chest like warmth. Our relationship hadn’t always been easy, but it didn’t matter at that moment. She wanted me there. And I was.
My dad spent the last few weeks of his life in hospice, in my home. Cancer was taking its toll, but he was still my dad. Calm. Funny. Kind. We had some of the best conversations of our lives during those last days. He didn’t rush. He didn’t complain. He just… was. That season, even in its sadness, was a gift.
Ted, my husband, lost his younger brother Tony to leukemia when Tony was just 18. Ted was only 20. Just weeks later, on his 21st birthday, his grandmother passed. Another deep loss, stacked right on top. He’s told me more than once that he would give anything to talk to either of them again. That loss changed him. It shaped his entire outlook. He doesn’t chase the petty things. He doesn’t hold grudges. He knows what matters, and he doesn’t waste time pretending otherwise.
And maybe that’s what grief teaches us when we let it close enough. It burns down the distractions, but it also reveals what was good. What we might have missed in the moment but can finally see clearly in the quiet afterward.
After my mom died, I picked up quilting. People laugh about it sometimes, but I didn’t do it to be crafty. I did it because my mom loved to sew. She tried to teach me more times than I can count. And now, years later, I’ve got a whole quilting room. My parents’ ashes sit in that room, in a wooden box. Sometimes I talk to her. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if she were alive and we could quilt together. I think she’d be proud of that room. I think she’d be happy in it.
The truth is, our relationship was hard. I won’t go into the reasons here. But what I know now, what I couldn’t quite grasp when I was younger, is that she loved me. And she was doing the best she knew how. I see that now with a clarity that only grief seems to offer. I wish I could tell her that. But I missed my chance.
That’s why I say this: don’t wait. Don’t let the last word be silence. If there’s love there, reach for it. Sit at the bedside. Say what matters. Even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy.
The Shift: From Stuff to Substance
Grief has a way of making you pay attention. Suddenly, the things that really matter step forward, and the rest of it fades into the background—or at least it should.
What matters to me is time: time with my husband, time with my kids, time with my granddaughter, my in-laws, my brothers, my nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts, and uncles. Big dinners, spontaneous visits, road trips, slow mornings—the people I love are what ground me.
My work matters, too. Attending births, helping women feel safe, seen, and in control, and walking with them through the most vulnerable and powerful moments of their lives fills me in a way that no amount of busywork or empty inbox ever could.
I love going to the movies, walking outside when it’s cool enough to breathe, trying new restaurants, and traveling to new places. These things aren’t extravagant. They’re human. They are moments where I feel connected, alive, and present.
It’s not that the unimportant stuff doesn’t still show up. It does. The drama. The pettiness. The emails that make your jaw tighten. The ridiculous conversations about things no one will even remember next week. I still get pulled into it sometimes, just like anyone else.
But I try to remember what grief taught me. It taught me that most of that noise isn’t worth losing sleep over. It taught me that love matters more than ego. That time is precious. That we don’t get unlimited chances to say what we need to say or be with the people we love.
Some days I forget. But I always come back to it. Grief doesn’t just take things from you. It gives you a lens. It clears the fog. And once you’ve seen what really matters, it’s hard to keep pretending all the small stuff does.
Final Thoughts: The Hug You Don’t Regret
Final Thoughts: The Hug You Don’t Regret
“Don’t sweat the small stuff, and it’s all small stuff.”
Ted and I used to recite it to each other like a mantra. Ted’s mom said it to him while he was growing up, offering a reminder not to get caught up in the chaos. However, it didn’t become real to me until after Tony died.
We had just come back from our honeymoon. I was a couple of days away from turning 20. Still more girl than woman, really. Tony, Ted’s little brother, had been a groomsman in our wedding just a few weeks before. Fourteen years old when I met him. A little annoying (like all little brothers, I suppose), but sweet, and very loved. The day after we got back, he went into the hospital. Four brutal months later, he was gone.
It was my first real experience with death up close. But it wasn’t just the grief that changed me; it was the love. The way Ted and his brother Chad clung to each other. The way their mom, Mary, stood strong but soft in the center of it all. The way her sisters, all five of them, wrapped around that family like a safety net, holding them up when none of them could stand on their own.
I had never seen anything like it. That kind of grief. That kind of love. That kind of devotion.
And I remember standing in the middle of it, thinking, “This is what I want. This is the kind of love I want in my marriage, in my family, in my life.” Everything else, the opinions, the drama, the to-do lists, the noise, suddenly looked so small.
Tony’s death changed me. I don’t think I’ve ever really been the same. And honestly, I don’t want to be.
So if you’re still sweating the small stuff, ask yourself: what’s really worth holding onto? And what would you give to have one more hug, moment, and chance to say what mattered?
Let go of what doesn’t. Hug your people. Say what needs to be said. Love harder. Forgive faster.
The small stuff can wait.
—Stay Strong! Jaelin—
More to Explore
If this piece resonated with you, here are a few others you might find meaningful:
- When Fear and Anxiety Walk Into the Birth Room
- Whispers That Wound: The Hidden Damage of Gossip
- Birth Shouldn’t Feel Like a Hostage Situation
Additional Reading
Navigating Intense Grief – How to Recover from a Devastating Loss by Emily Vandenberg
Good Grief: A Companion for Every Loss by Granger E. Westberg
Note: Full disclosure: SHEis Online earns a small (very small) commission on any links in the article that take you to Amazon.
About the Author:
Dr. Jaelin Stickels, DPN, CNM, APRN, is a deeply passionate and highly skilled Certified Nurse Midwife, Women’s Health Nurse Practitioner, and the owner of Holistic Heritage Homebirth in Houston, Texas. With over a decade of midwife experience, Jaelin has had the privilege of helping several hundred (over 700 as of 2024…) women welcome their babies into the world. In addition to her advanced practice licensure training, she has additional advanced training in twin and breech births, making her one of only a few with these skills in her area. Jaelin approaches every birth with expertise, compassion, and a deep respect for the birthing process.
Jaelin’s journey into midwifery began with a profound love for supporting women through the incredible experience of pregnancy, labor, and postpartum. Since 2010, she has been dedicated to walking alongside families during these transformative moments, offering guidance, support, and care tailored to each individual’s unique needs. She is a big believer in informed consent and ensures clients are given the best evidence-based information to make the best decisions for themselves and their families.
Married to her high school sweetheart Ted (aka Chef Ted) since 1984, Jaelin is the proud mother of three grown children and the delighted grandmother of one amazing granddaughter. When she’s not assisting in births, Jaelin finds joy in going to the movies with her husband, quilting, and cherishing time with her family. Known by the other midwives in her practice (Holistic Heritage Homebirth) affectionately as the “Birth Hog,” she brings an unmatched dedication and enthusiasm to her work—no one loves birth quite like she does.
Find out more about Jaelin’s Homebirth Practice (Holistic Heritage Homebirth) in Houston, TX
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