Every Day Is Hard. Even the Special Ones.

Tomorrow is the 4th of July. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

Gary loved the 4th of July. He looked forward to it all year. He planned the barbecue, the water fights, the fireworks. He turned into a big kid. He called himself a "playbabe," and on the 4th of July, he was the biggest playbabe you ever saw.

It was his holiday. He invited the family over. He made it special.

So now, when the 4th of July comes around, my mind wants to say, This is going to be a horrible day because Gary isn’t here.

But the truth is... every day is hard. It isn’t just holidays or anniversaries. It’s every single day without him. This Tuesday hurts. Next Wednesday hurts too.

We put so much meaning on these "special days." We tell ourselves that certain days are supposed to be the happiest or the most fun. And then we feel like we fail when we can’t make them feel that way anymore.

But what if the day itself doesn’t have meaning until we give it meaning?

I can choose to see the 4th of July as the day Gary isn’t here, and yes, that is true. But I can also remember that he was here. That he loved this day so much he made it unforgettable. That his joy was real.

I don’t have to make the day into something it isn’t. I don’t have to force myself to be okay. I also don’t have to stay stuck in the story that this day is ruined forever.

The meaning I choose today can be simple: Gary loved this day. I love him. I miss him. And that’s all true at the same time.

We get to choose the meaning we put behind each day. Some days, the meaning might be, I survived today. Other days, it might be, I felt a small spark of joy.

Whatever it is, it’s okay.

Sending love to anyone facing a "special day" this week. Or any day at all. You’re not alone.💜💚

You’re Allowed to Be Exactly Where You Are

You might think you should be stronger by now.
You might feel like you should “move on.”
You might feel like you should not still miss him this much.

We hear this everywhere.
Be strong.
Keep going.
Smile more.

But the truth is simple.
It is okay to still miss him.
It is okay to love him and miss him forever.
That does not mean you are stuck.
It means your love is real.

There is no gold star for being strong.
There is no prize for “moving on.”
There is no right or wrong way to carry this love and pain.

You can feel deep grief and still laugh at something funny.
You can feel joy and still cry when you see his favorite snack at the store.
You can love your life and still wish he was here.

You do not have to pick.
You can hold both.
Grief and life.
Tears and smiles.
Heavy and light.

When you let yourself be where you are, you give your heart room to breathe.
You stop fighting your own feelings.
You stop trying to rush yourself into some place you are not ready to go.

When you do this, you see that you are not failing.
You are loving.
You are living.
You are finding your way, one small step at a time.

You are allowed to be exactly where you are.
Right now.
Today.

What If You’re Not Doing It Wrong?

It’s been six months.
It shouldn’t hurt this much.

That is what I used to tell myself.
I thought there was a timeline.
I thought there was a point when it would stop feeling so big.
I thought time would mean less pain.

Anything with time is a lie.
We use time to bully ourselves.
We use time to prove that we are doing grief the “right” way.
Or that we are strong enough.

But grief does not work that way.
Time does not heal by itself.
Time does not make love smaller.

I started to notice the thoughts that showed up again and again.
Thoughts like "I should be over this by now."
"I shouldn’t still be crying."
When I saw those thoughts, I realized they were adding more pain on top of my grief.

I learned to challenge them.
I learned to say, "This is grief. It is okay to feel this."
I started to choose other thoughts that helped me.
Thoughts like "I am not doing it wrong."
"I can let this feeling be here without shame."

When I did this, I felt a little more free.
I felt less alone.
I felt less broken.
I could see that I was not failing.
I was just loving someone who was no longer here.

You can notice those thoughts too.
You can choose to let go of the time rules.
You can choose kinder thoughts that help you carry this pain.

When you do this, you give yourself more kindness.
You give your heart more space to breathe.
You see that you are not doing it wrong.
You are just grieving.

If you need a soft place to talk this out, I am here.
You can sign up for a free Holding the Ember call.
Or you can download my free writing journal prompts.
Both can help you find gentle words for what is in your heart.

Grief Changes Everything. Even the Grocery Store

Grief didn’t just show up on the day I lost him. It kept showing up in places I didn’t expect.

It showed up in the grocery store.

It showed up when my tire went flat and there was no one to call.

It showed up when I made just one cup of coffee.

It showed up when I reached for the pickles and remembered

he was the only one who ate them. 

(I mean, I like pickles but not enough to buy a whole jar.)

The hardest part wasn’t only that he was gone.

It was that every single thing in my world changed all at once.

Things that seemed small before felt huge now.

And most people around me didn’t see any of it.

I remember going to the BMV to put two cars in my name.

They were his 1974 Oldsmobile Cutlasses. 

(Yup, he had two of them)

He loved those cars.

I stood in line holding the paperwork. 

Holding his death certificate. 

My thoughts weren’t helping…

“My name doesn’t belong on these titles.”

“I am stealing his cars.”

I felt wrong. Out of place. Alone.

I didn’t know what to call that feeling.

I just knew it hurt.

They are called secondary losses.

They are the things that change in your life because your person died.

And they happen ALL. THE. TIME.

There’s no one to watch your bag at the airport.

There’s no way you can list him as your emergency contact.

There’s no help with making hard decisions.

Like which toaster to buy. 

Everything in your world was connected to your person.

So even something simple like filling up the gas tank

can remind you over and over and over again that he’s not here.

Knowing these losses are real helps.

It helps you stop wondering if you’re doing something wrong.

It helps you see that this is grief.

And it’s okay to feel it.

One way to walk through this part of grief

is to name these small but painful losses.

To say them out loud or write them down.

To notice when they show up and give yourself space to feel them.

You are not too sensitive. You are not being dramatic.

You are loving someone who isn’t here in all the ways they once were.

When you name these losses and let yourself feel them,

you are honoring your grief.

You are telling yourself the truth.

You are letting your heart catch up with your life.

And when you do that, you find something else too.

You see that you are doing this.

You are carrying something hard and still showing up.

You are walking through a world that changed

and finding your way through it.

You don’t have to rush.

You don’t have to fix it.

You just have to keep going.

You can do this.

It’s Been Months. Grief Doesn’t Care.

At some point, the cards stop coming.
The texts get quieter.
The world just… moves on.

But grief doesn’t care what month it is.
It doesn’t pack up and leave when everyone else does.

You might be months—or even longer—into this loss, and still have days that undo you.
And people don’t always understand that.
They expect you to “be doing better.” To “feel more like yourself.”

The truth is, they want the old you back.
The one who smiled easily. The one who didn’t cry in the grocery store.
They ask “How are you doing?”—but they don’t really want the real answer.

So you learn to say, “I’m okay.”
Even when you’re absolutely not.

I don’t know who created the idea that grief comes with a clock.
But I do know what it feels like to be standing in the thick of it—while everyone else has moved on with their lives.

It’s quiet. And lonely.
And it can feel like you’re somehow doing it wrong.

You’re not.

Grief doesn’t care what month it is.
It doesn’t show up on a neat little timeline. It doesn’t disappear after six months, or after the first anniversary, or after the holidays are over.

Some days, you might feel okay. Other days, you’re crying in the car because the song on the radio cracked something wide open.

That’s not regression.
That’s not weakness.
That’s grief.

There’s no finish line here.
No gold star for bouncing back quickly.

You’re not falling behind.
You’re not broken.
You’re simply living through something that changed everything.

If you still cry—months or even years later—nothing’s wrong with you.
It means you loved deeply. It means your loss is real.

Grief doesn’t care what month it is.
And you’re allowed to still feel it.

If you’ve been carrying all of this quietly—trying to hold it together because people around you just don’t get it—I want to offer you a space where you don’t have to pretend.

It’s a 45-minute call I call Holding the Ember: A Conversation of Hope. 

No pressure. No expectations.
Just a quiet space for you to be real. To speak honestly. To not be “strong” for a minute.

Because if no one else is saying it:

Your grief still matters.

You still matter.

And you don’t have to carry this alone

What I Wish I Had Known Sooner

Oh, the things I used to say….

You should be better by now

Stay strong

You are doing it wrong

You are broken

You deserve this pain

You are so weak

Do NOT talk about him

For the widow I was at the beginning.

There’s so much I wish I could go back and tell myself in those early days after my husband died. Mostly, I wish I had been kinder. Because the things I said to myself in my mind—no one would ever say to a grieving widow.

I told myself I deserved this. That I was meant to be alone. That I never truly deserved to have him in the first place. 
I was exhausted all the time, feeling every emotion from deep love to unbearable despair. The swing between them was dizzying. I didn't know it was possible to feel everything all at once—and still be standing.

Grief came with a cruel inner voice and a thousand confusing expectations. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was swimming in a sea of myths—unspoken rules I thought I was supposed to follow.

Looking back now, I want to name them.
Maybe you're hearing them too.

 Grief has a timeline.

People said things like, “Just get through the first year, and you’ll be fine.”

And my brain wanted so badly to believe them. It clung to time like a lifeline:
“Wait for the weekend, it’ll be better.”
“It’s been six months. It shouldn’t be this hard.”
“Other people don’t take this long to get over it.”

But the truth is: grief doesn’t run on a clock.

What I’ve learned is that any thought that starts with “you should feel better by now” is just another way to bully yourself. The sharpest pain doesn’t last forever, but neither does healing arrive on schedule. Grief changes shape, not on a timeline—but on your own terms.

 There’s a right way to grieve.

I was convinced I was doing it wrong. That nobody else could be this devastated.
That I was too emotional. Too messy. Too weak.

At the same time, people would say things like, “You’re so strong.”
I hated that. It felt like they were watching a totally different person.

I was torn between feeling completely broken and needing to perform some kind of graceful sorrow. It was maddening.
What I now know is this: there is no perfect widow script.

However you’re grieving—it’s valid.
You’re not broken. You’re human.

Talking about them means you’re stuck.

After a while, people just... stopped mentioning his name. They stopped checking on me. They worked hard to talk about anything other than my husband or my grief.

I wanted to scream:
Don’t you see I’m alone?
Don’t you realize my whole world has changed?

It felt like silence was being used to move on. But I wasn't ready to stop saying his name. I still needed to talk about him. To remember. To have someone listen.

Now I understand: talking about someone you’ve lost isn’t a sign that you’re stuck.
It’s a sign that they mattered. And still do.

 Moving forward means letting go.

People would glance at me when I laughed, as if they were silently thinking:
“Oh, she’s getting over him.”

And sometimes, I would think that too.

I wondered if laughing meant I was disrespecting him. If smiling or feeling joy made me a bad wife in grief. Wasn’t I supposed to mourn outwardly? All the time?

Here’s what I believe now: you can love your person and still laugh again.
You can carry your grief and still find light.
You don’t “move on” from love. You just find a way to move forward with it.

Eventually, you’ll feel like your old self again.

I desperately wanted that to be true. I wanted to feel familiar to myself.
But I didn’t. I felt like a stranger in my own body, in my own life.

What I now know is that grief changes you—not unlike motherhood, or any other major transformation. It changes you on a cellular level.

You won’t go back. But you will go forward.
And the person you become can still be whole, still be beautiful, still be you—just a different version.

If You're Just Starting Out

If you’re in the early days of widowhood, I want to tell you something I wish someone had told me:

You’re not doing it wrong.
You’re grieving.

It won’t always feel this sharp. The sorrow won’t always steal your breath. Over time, it changes shape.
And little by little, you learn to carry it. With more steadiness. With more gentleness. With more hope.

If this resonated, I’d love to offer you a quiet space to talk. Holding the Ember: A Free Conversation of Hope is a gentle, no-pressure call for widows to share what they’re carrying—and be met with understanding.

No expectations. No timeline.
Just presence.
Just care.
Just you, as you are.