When the People Closest to You Don’t Understand Your Grief

One of the hardest parts of grief is realizing that some of the people you counted on the most cannot meet you where you are. You expect them to know how to show up, to say something that helps, to stay close. Some try and miss. Some pull away. Others tell you things that make the ache worse. You might start to wonder if you are asking too much, or if something about your grief makes people uncomfortable.

It is confusing because love and disappointment sit side by side. These are people who cared about you before the loss. They may still care, but they do not know this version of you — the one who cries without warning, the one who cancels plans, the one who no longer fits into small talk. The truth is that grief changes not only you, but every relationship around you.

Most people want to help, but they live in a culture that avoids pain. They do not know how to listen without fixing, how to stay when tears start, or how to make space for silence. They may say things that sound comforting but land like stones: “He wouldn’t want you to be sad.” “You are strong.” “At least you had time to say goodbye.” None of these words touch the truth of what you are living.

You begin to learn that you cannot teach someone to understand what they have never lived. You can try to explain, but real understanding comes from shared experience, and not everyone will be able to go there with you. That realization can feel like another loss, a second wave of grief layered over the first.

It is okay to step back. Protecting your peace does not mean shutting people out forever. It means recognizing what your heart can handle right now. You may find that time with certain friends leaves you more drained than comforted. You may feel yourself pulling away from people who once felt like home. This is not unkindness. It is survival.

You can start to lower the expectations that keep hurting you. Some people will never be able to offer the kind of support you hoped for, and accepting that truth can be painful but freeing. When you stop waiting for others to understand, you open space to find connection in new places… maybe with other widowed people, or with someone who simply listens without trying to make you feel better.

You might also notice that some relationships deepen in surprising ways. Someone you barely knew before may suddenly show up with quiet steadiness. A friend you thought was distant might send a message that lands exactly right. Let those moments matter. They are reminders that even when understanding feels rare, connection can still grow.

With time, you start to see that the goal is not to make everyone understand your grief. The goal is to surround yourself with people who respect it. You learn to measure relationships not by how much someone says the right thing, but by whether you feel safe being honest in their presence.

When that happens, the loneliness starts to shift. The world still feels smaller, but it becomes more real. You begin to trust your own sense of what feels right, instead of trying to shape yourself to fit the comfort of others. That is what peace in grief often looks like — not a return to how things were, but an acceptance of what is true now.

If you are in that place where the people around you do not understand, please know you are not alone. There are others who know what it feels like to carry love and loss at the same time. You can schedule a Holding the Ember conversation — a free 45-minute call where we can talk about what it means to find steady ground in a world that no longer feels familiar, and how to stay connected to what helps you breathe again.

How to Face the Future When You Can’t Picture It Yet

When your partner dies, time changes. The calendar keeps moving, but you are standing still. People talk about next month or next year as if the future is something you can still step into. You listen, but the words slide past you. The future feels far away and empty, like a story that no longer belongs to you.

Before the loss, you probably had a rhythm to your days. You knew what tomorrow would bring in small ways. You might have planned a meal, a trip, or something simple like a movie night. Those plans were woven into a life that made sense. Now that sense is gone. The person who made ordinary days feel full is not here, and every plan feels wrong without them.

It is common to look ahead and feel nothing but fog. For a long time, it might seem like the future does not exist. There is only before and after. That is not failure or weakness. It is what happens when love has been torn from daily life. The mind cannot imagine what has never been lived before.

In those early months, the idea of “moving forward” can feel harsh. It suggests that you should be leaving something behind. But you are not leaving your person or your love. You are learning how to keep living in a world that does not include them in the same way. That is not forward. That is survival.

When everything feels uncertain, start small. Forget the big picture. Ask yourself, “What would help me get through this next hour?” Maybe it is making tea, stepping outside, or folding the laundry. None of those things fix the loss, but they keep you connected to living. One moment at a time, one small act at a time, your body begins to remember that it still knows how to be alive.

At first, you will do these things without feeling any comfort. That is okay. The goal is not to feel better. It is simply to stay present. Over time, something begins to shift. A small piece of interest or curiosity might return. You may notice sunlight through the window or hear a song that reminds you that life still moves. Those small glimmers are not the future yet, but they are signs that life is finding a way to keep breathing through you.

Eventually, the future begins to take shape in quiet ways. You might agree to meet a friend, start a small project, or consider something new that would have made your partner proud. These moments come slowly and without fanfare. You may not even recognize them as steps forward until you look back and realize that time has carried you.

The truth is, you do not have to see the future clearly in order to live into it. You do not have to know where you are going to take one more step. The future will not appear as a plan or a goal. It will appear as a series of small choices to stay. To breathe. To keep showing up for your own life even when you do not know what it will become.

There will still be days when the fog returns and everything feels impossible again. That does not mean you are going backward. It only means that grief still has work to do inside you. Those days are part of the process too. The path through grief is not straight. It is made of circles, pauses, and slow awakenings.

You are not meant to rebuild your life all at once. You are meant to live what is here, moment by moment, until those moments begin to form something that feels like life again.

If you are standing in that space where the future feels too far to imagine, you do not have to face it alone. You can schedule a Holding the Ember conversation. It is a free 45-minute call where we can talk about how to take small steps toward life again, even when you cannot yet see where they will lead.

What to Do When Food and Sleep Stop Making Sense

After loss, the basics of life can fall apart. Eating, drinking water, resting — all the things that once came naturally — can feel impossible. You might wake up in the middle of the night and stare at the ceiling for hours. You might look at food and feel nothing. The body that once felt familiar becomes something strange.

Grief scrambles your internal system. It interrupts hunger and sleep because your brain is trying to make sense of something it cannot fix. Many widows find that they forget to eat or cannot stop crying long enough to swallow a bite. Others find they eat without tasting, or they sleep all day because being awake hurts too much. However it shows up for you, it makes sense. Your body is responding to the shock of loss.

The first step is not to force yourself to be fine. You do not need to return to old routines right away. Start small. Keep something simple within reach — crackers, fruit, a warm drink. You may not finish it, but your body will notice that you are trying. That small act is a form of care.

When it comes to rest, focus on creating the conditions for sleep rather than the outcome. Turn off bright lights earlier than usual. Lower the noise around you. Let yourself sit quietly before bed, even if sleep does not come. Sometimes your body needs to relearn that the night can be a place of rest instead of fear.

If the house feels too quiet, try soft sounds — music, an audiobook, the hum of a fan. Your nervous system is trying to find rhythm again, and these small cues can help. You might also find that short naps during the day bring more relief than long nights spent waiting for sleep that will not come.

There is no right schedule in grief. There is only your body, trying to survive something it never asked for. Be patient with it. Trust that hunger will return in its own time and that sleep will find its way back when your body feels safe enough to rest.

These basic needs may not feel important when everything else has fallen apart, but tending to them helps rebuild your strength piece by piece. Each glass of water, each bite of food, each moment of stillness says, “I am still here.”

If you are struggling to care for your body in this new reality, you do not have to face it alone. You can schedule a Holding the Ember conversation — a free 45-minute call where we can talk about ways to steady yourself when everything feels uncertain.

Learning to Live With Grief, Not Against It

When grief hits, every part of you wants it to stop. The pain feels too heavy, too sharp, too endless. You try to breathe around it, but it fills the room. The world tells you to find peace, to stay positive, to move forward. None of that helps when you are standing in the middle of heartbreak.

In the beginning, most of us do what we can to survive. We distract ourselves, stay busy, or shut down. We hold our breath waiting for the next wave to pass. It makes sense. Grief is too much to hold all at once. But after a while, trying to avoid the pain only makes it louder. It shows up in other ways; exhaustion, irritability, numbness. The body keeps carrying what the heart will not feel.

The truth is that there is no way around grief. The only way to live with it is to let yourself feel it when it comes. That might mean crying until you are empty. It might mean sitting in silence and letting your chest ache. It might mean screaming in the car, or whispering your love into the dark. None of it is wrong. Feeling it is what allows it to move through you instead of hardening inside you.

Some days the pain comes like a storm. Other days it drifts in quietly. You do not have to invite it, but you can stop fighting it. When it shows up, try to meet it with the smallest bit of permission — yes, this hurts; yes, it’s here again. That’s how the heart learns to breathe through it.

Over time, grief does not disappear, but it changes shape. The waves are still there, but they start to flow instead of crash. You begin to trust yourself to survive each one. You begin to see that pain is not proof of brokenness — it’s proof of love.

You don’t have to do this alone. If you want a space to talk about what it means to live with pain instead of fighting it, you can schedule a Holding the Ember conversation. It’s a free 45-minute call where we can talk about how to let grief move through you in ways that honor both your loss and your strength.

Why It’s Hard to Accept Help and How to Let It In

When loss first happens, everything feels like static. People ask what you need, and you cannot find words. The question itself feels too big. You are trying to breathe, to eat, to remember what day it is. You do not know what you need because you have never lived this life before.

Those around you often mean well. They bring food, send messages, or say, “Call me if you need anything.” You nod, but the thought of reaching out feels impossible. You are not avoiding help; you are surviving. The brain can only hold one thing at a time, and right now, it’s holding the shock of your person’s last breath. 

In those early days, help might look like nothing more than someone sitting nearby, someone who shows up without asking questions or expecting conversation. Sometimes, you just need people who can exist beside your pain without trying to make it smaller. The kind of help that matters most is often quiet — someone who drops off groceries and leaves them at the door, a friend who texts “I’m thinking of you” without asking for a reply, a neighbor who takes care of something before you even realize it needed doing.

As time begins to stretch and the fog lifts a little, you may start to notice small needs rising to the surface. You realize the mail is piling up, or the fridge is empty again. These small realizations are not signs of weakness; they are signs that your brain is slowly coming back online. You are starting to remember what it means to live again, one small function at a time.

Letting others in can begin here… not through requests, but through allowing. Allowing the friend to drive you somewhere, the neighbor to take out the trash, the coworker to check in. Letting someone’s care reach you, even when you do not know how to receive it, is its own kind of strength. You don’t have to plan it, explain it, or manage it. You can simply let it happen.

Over time, the shape of help begins to change. You begin to recognize what comforts you and what doesn’t. You may find a few people who can handle your truth without turning away. You learn who can sit with you in silence and who can’t. This knowing grows slowly, and that’s okay.

Help does not fix the loss, and it does not erase the loneliness, but it can soften the edges. It keeps you connected to the world when everything inside you wants to turn away.

If you are at a point where you are starting to wonder what kind of support could help you keep moving, I invite you to schedule a Holding the Ember conversation. It’s a free 45-minute call where we can talk about what it means to receive care in this new landscape, even when the words for it are still forming.

Boundaries in Grief: Protecting Your Energy and Peace

After loss, even the smallest interactions can feel heavy. You might find yourself avoiding certain people or places because being around them makes the ache sharper. Some friends mean well but say the wrong things. Others disappear altogether, unsure of what to say. Every conversation takes energy, and that energy is already in short supply. It can leave you wondering if something is wrong with you for needing space.

There is nothing wrong with you. Grief itself demands protection. Your heart is doing the hardest work it has ever done, and that kind of work needs rest and room. Boundaries are not walls to shut people out. They are lines that tell your spirit where safety begins again.

You might start noticing what brings calm and what adds weight. Maybe certain calls leave you drained or a family member keeps pushing you to “move on.” Listening to your body’s response helps you see where a boundary might help. It could sound like, “I’m not ready to talk about that right now,” or “I need to stay home tonight.” Sometimes, it means saying nothing at all and simply stepping back for a while.

Creating boundaries in grief often begins quietly. You do not have to make big declarations. You can take one situation at a time. You can practice saying no without apology. You can choose where to spend your limited energy and with whom. Each time you do, you give yourself permission to heal in your own way and your own time.

Over time, something begins to shift. The exhaustion that once felt constant starts to ease. You begin to feel more grounded and less tangled in other people’s expectations. The world will not always understand your choices, but peace rarely comes from being understood. It comes from honoring what you need.

As you practice protecting your energy, you create space for moments of stillness, for your breath to deepen, and for your love to settle quietly beside your grief. And in that space, you begin to find yourself again — not the same as before, but whole in a new way.

If you need a safe place to talk about what boundaries might look like for you, I invite you to schedule a Holding the Ember conversation. It is a free call where we can explore how to protect your peace while still staying connected to the people and things that matter most.

How Grief Affects Your Body and Gentle Ways to Care for It

When your partner dies, it is not only your heart that breaks. Your body feels it too. You might stop sleeping or find yourself awake at strange hours. Food might lose all taste, or you may forget to eat altogether. Every muscle can feel heavy. Every breath feels like work. Many widows are surprised by how physical grief can be. It is not just sadness; it is a full-body experience.

Grief changes your nervous system. It shifts how your brain and body communicate. The same systems that protect you in danger now stay on high alert because the world no longer feels safe. You may feel tired all the time, or the opposite—restless and uneasy. You might notice your shoulders tighten, your stomach ache, or your body tremble when memories come. All of that makes sense. Your body is trying to protect you, even as it struggles to understand what has happened.

Caring for your body in grief does not mean forcing yourself to do more. It begins with noticing. You might start by asking small questions: Have I had water today? Did I move my body at all? When did I last take a slow, steady breath? The answers will guide you. Gentle attention is often the first step toward balance.

If you have gone through days or weeks where you barely slept, try creating a bedtime rhythm that tells your body it is safe to rest. Turn off lights a little earlier, silence your phone, and let your mind know it can slow down. If eating feels impossible, choose simple foods that comfort you without pressure. Sometimes that might mean toast or a small bowl of soup. It is not about perfection; it is about nourishment.

Movement can help too, in ways that meet you where you are. A short walk outside, a quiet stretch before bed, or even sitting near a window can remind your body that life still moves. Each gentle action is a small message of care — a way of saying to yourself, “I am still here.”

Over time, these small acts begin to change how grief lives inside you. The fog starts to lift in moments. You notice that you can breathe a little easier. You begin to trust your body again as a safe place for your love and your loss to coexist.

You do not have to do this alone. Sometimes it helps to talk about what your body is carrying — the exhaustion, the ache, the ways you feel disconnected. If you would like a gentle space to begin that conversation, you are welcome to schedule a Holding the Ember call. It is a free 45-minute conversation where we can explore how to support both your body and your heart as you find your way forward.

Why Other Widows Are Often the Only Ones Who Truly Understand

After your partner dies, the world keeps moving while your world has stopped. Friends say kind things. Family checks in. But somehow, no one really gets it. The loneliness can grow even when you are surrounded by people. It is not that they do not care. It is that they cannot understand what it feels like to wake up every day with this ache and still try to live.

You may start to wonder if you are broken. Why conversations feel awkward. Why support that used to help now falls flat. Many widows feel this way.

There is something deeply different about being with another widow. It is not about words. It is about shared knowing. When you sit with someone who has also lost their person, you do not have to explain the look on your face or the silence that falls in the middle of a sentence. They already understand it.

Connection with other widows can be one of the most healing parts of this journey. It reminds you that you are not strange or weak or doing grief the wrong way. It reminds you that love this deep always leaves a mark that others can recognize.

Here are a few gentle ways to start connecting with others who understand:

• Find widow-centered spaces. Look for online or in-person groups made for widowed people. These can include community programs, support circles, or social media communities created by and for widows.

• Reach out slowly. You do not have to share everything at once. Start by listening. Notice whose words feel real to you.

• Honor your energy. You may not have the strength for every conversation. That is okay. Connection works best when you allow yourself to rest and return when ready.

• Stay open to friendship. Sometimes, a simple message or shared story can grow into something meaningful. Many widows describe these new connections as a form of belonging they did not know they needed.

When you find even one person who truly understands, something begins to shift. The isolation eases. The noise of other people’s advice becomes quieter. You start to feel seen again.

You might still cry together. You might still ache. But you will not feel as alone inside the ache. And in that shared space, hope has room to breathe again.

If you are ready to explore how connection can become part of your healing, I invite you to schedule a Holding the Ember conversation; a free 45-minute space where we can talk about where you are and what you need next.

When Friends Fade Away

When grief hit, I thought my friends would hold me up. I thought they would call, check in, and stay close.

But many of them didn’t.
The calls stopped.
The texts got shorter.
Some disappeared completely.

The problem: I felt abandoned in my grief. Losing him was already unbearable. Losing my circle on top of it felt completely unfair.

And inside, I started blaming myself.
Am I too sad? Too broken? Not “getting better” fast enough?

The truth is, you shouldn’t have to feel abandoned when you’re already grieving. Grief is heavy enough without carrying shame too.

I’ve learned something important: when friends fade away, it isn’t because your grief is too much. It’s because they don’t know how to hold it. And that’s about them — not you.

Still, there is hope.
Because even while some friends step back, others quietly step forward. A neighbor who leaves soup. A cousin who calls just to listen. Another widow who simply nods because she understands.

A small plan that helped me:

1. I wrote down the names of people who felt safe to lean on.

2. I let myself notice who showed up — even in small ways.

3. I tried to lean toward those few, instead of chasing the ones who pulled away.

That shift mattered. Instead of staying stuck in the hurt of who was gone, I started to see the gift of who remained.

Losing friends in grief is real. It cuts deep. But even one person who stays is proof that love can still hold you here.

And if you need a place where you don’t have to wonder whether you’re “too much,” I offer a free conversation called Holding the Ember. It’s gentle space to tell the truth of your story and be met with understanding. You can find it here.

You don’t have to grieve alone. hugs 💜💚

From Grief to Growth: Learning Life After Loss

When your person dies, the world changes in a way you can’t prepare for.
It’s not just the big hole in your heart — it’s the everyday, practical things that suddenly fall to you alone.

Bills. Decisions. Repairs. Plans.
Things you might never have done before, things you never wanted to do without them.

And every new responsibility carries its own emotional weight.
Paying the mortgage isn’t just paying the mortgage — it’s a reminder that they’re not here.
Fixing the leaky faucet isn’t just fixing the faucet — it’s doing it without the one who would have been there holding the wrench, or handing you a towel.

If that feels overwhelming, you’re not wrong.
You’re not failing.
You’re grieving.

The Emotional Weight of New Roles

Some days, you’ll feel a flicker of confidence — “I handled that.”
Other days, you might freeze and wonder how you’ll ever keep up.

Grief changes even the smallest tasks.
I remember the first time I did something “he always handled.” I got through it, but I cried in the driveway afterward. Not because the job was hard, but because I missed him standing next to me.

If you feel that too, it makes sense. Your love was real, and your grief is too.

Building Your Support Net

This is not a solo climb.
Lean on the people who can meet you where you are — friends, family, other widows, support groups.
Let someone drive you to an appointment. Let someone help you sort paperwork. Let someone sit with you while you eat.

And if you don’t have those people yet, know they exist. You can find them — in local meetups, online communities, or small circles built one conversation at a time.

Facing the Finances

Money stuff can be one of the scariest parts.
You might be learning a whole new language — insurance forms, budgets, due dates.
Start small. Pick one thing. Pay one bill. Organize one folder.

If it feels too big, ask a trusted friend to sit with you. Sometimes just having another human in the room takes the edge off the panic.

Mistakes will happen. They don’t mean you’re failing — they mean you’re learning.

The Everyday Victories

The first time you fix something on your own.
The first time you make a decision without asking someone else.
The first time you say, “I’ve got this” — even if your voice shakes.

These are small wins, and they matter. Write them down. Let yourself be proud, even if the pride and the ache show up together.

When Decisions Feel Too Big

Widowhood has a way of making every choice feel heavier.
Whether it’s buying a car, planning a trip, or deciding what to do with their things — break it down.
One step at a time.
Ask for input if you need it.
And know that waiting is also an option. You don’t have to rush.

Let Yourself Feel It All

Some days you’ll feel capable. Other days you’ll feel like you’re back at the beginning.
Both are normal.

Journaling, talking to other widows, or simply sitting with your feelings can help you see your own progress over time.
When you look back, you’ll notice that what used to knock you flat now only slows you down.

A Growth Mindset (Even in Grief)

This isn’t about “getting over it.”
It’s about learning what’s possible for you now, one step at a time.

You will make mistakes.
You will have hard days.
But you will also have moments when you surprise yourself.

Self-Compassion is Non-Negotiable

Talk to yourself the way you would talk to another widow you love.
Gently. Without judgment.

Your effort counts.
Your rest counts.
The fact that you are here, reading this, counts.

From “I Can’t” to “I’m Learning”

This shift doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a slow, uneven process.
One day you’ll notice that you’re doing something you never thought you could — and you’ll realize you’ve been doing it for a while.

You are not alone in this.
If you want someone to listen without judgment, to sit with you in the hard parts, I offer Holding the Ember: A Free Conversation of Hope — a space to say what’s true for you right now, and to be met with understanding.

You have the strength within you — even if you don’t feel it yet.
Every step you take is a building block toward a life that can hold both the love you carry and the new things you’re learning.

This isn’t the life you planned, but it’s still your life.
And little by little, you can make it a life that feels like yours again.

The Life You Still Touch

How Grieving Hearts Offer Love, Wisdom, and Light in a Changed World

After your world falls apart, helping someone else might feel laughable. You’re just trying to breathe. Just trying to stand. Some days, getting out of bed is the victory. So the idea of giving anything to anyone can feel out of reach. Or out of touch. You might think, “I’m barely holding myself together. What do I have to give?”

And yet.

Somewhere in the middle of the ache, something soft begins to stir. A moment of knowing. A quiet pull to reach out. Maybe it shows up as a text you send, a hug you offer, or just the way you nod when someone says they’re hurting too.

This is not about being a hero or making meaning out of pain. It’s about recognizing that the love you carry — and even the pain you carry — has shaped you into someone with something real to offer.

Here are four quiet ways widowed people begin to offer that love — and find new meaning in the process.

Being Present for Someone Else, Even in Your Pain

You know what it feels like to be broken and unseen. You know what it’s like to have the world keep spinning when yours has stopped. And that knowing becomes something powerful. Not loud, not flashy — but deeply real.

When you show up for another grieving person — not with advice, not with solutions, but with honesty and presence — it means something. You don’t have to be done grieving. You don’t have to be steady all the time. Your tenderness is enough.

You can say “me too” and mean it. You can cry with someone, sit in silence, or hold space without pretending everything’s okay.

And yes, you get to have boundaries. You can support someone without sacrificing your own heart. You’re allowed to take breaks. To say no. To rest.
Your presence is a gift — not because you’re perfect, but because you understand.

Letting Your Story Be a Hand to Hold

Your grief isn’t a speech. It isn’t something you owe to anyone. But sometimes, speaking your story — even a sentence at a time — can become a bridge.

Maybe you tell someone, “I’ve felt that too.”
Maybe you write a post.
Maybe you keep a journal and realize, one day, that your words might help someone else.

You don’t need to wrap anything in a bow. Your story doesn’t have to be inspiring. It can just be real. And that realness might be exactly what someone else needs.

When you tell your truth — even the shaky parts — you remind others that they’re not alone. And sometimes, in the telling, you remind yourself too.

Giving in Small, True Ways

There may come a moment when you want to do more than survive. Not because the grief has faded, but because your heart is stretching again.
It doesn’t have to be grand. You don’t have to start a foundation or lead a cause.

Giving back might look like helping your neighbor with the trash. Or checking in on a friend. Or making a meal. It might be mentoring, volunteering, or simply being someone who sees people.

Let it be true to you. Let it come from a place of steadiness, not pressure.
You don’t owe anyone your energy. But when it feels good to give, when it feels like a spark instead of a drain — follow that.

Because what you give, even quietly, even rarely, can change someone’s day. Sometimes even their life.

Letting Purpose Whisper

The phrase “finding purpose” can feel loaded. It can feel like a demand — like you’re supposed to hurry up and make your pain meaningful.
But maybe purpose isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something that reveals itself over time.

You might notice that you care more about certain things now. Or that you’re more honest. Or more tender. You might begin to trust your voice again, even in its softness.

You don’t have to label it. You don’t have to explain it. You just get to notice what is beginning to bloom — not in spite of your grief, but alongside it.

Final Thoughts

You don’t have to be fixed to be helpful.
You don’t have to be whole to hold someone else.

The truth is: grief has made you more human, not less. And when you reach out, in any way that’s real, you offer the kind of support only someone who has been through it can give.

Maybe you say “me too.”
Maybe you offer a smile.
Maybe you just listen.

And maybe, in doing so, you start to feel something stir in you.
A sense that you still matter.
That your story matters.
That you are still here, carrying love.

And that love — it still has work to do.

💜💚

Becoming Ready for More

An Invitation to Let Life Hold Possibility Again

After your person dies, time doesn’t just stop. It splinters. The future, once filled with birthdays or vacations or growing old together, can feel like a wall you didn’t choose. A vast blank space. A question you never wanted to answer.

Maybe you used to picture things. A retirement together. A kitchen remodel. A silly bucket list. Now you might not picture anything at all. Not because you don’t want to — but because the person you pictured it with is gone.

But even inside the ache, something quieter begins. A flicker. A wondering. Not for what used to be. But for what still might be.

This isn’t about rushing. It’s not about fixing your life or being “over it.” It’s about noticing the parts of you that still long for more. The parts that whisper, what now? The parts that want something good again — even in the shadow of what’s been lost.

Here are four tender ways widowed people begin to move toward the future — not all at once, not with certainty, but with a soft kind of courage.

Letting Yourself Picture Something

For a long time, the future might feel like a threat. Or a test you didn’t study for. Just hearing the word future might make your stomach turn.

But even if you’re not planning anything yet, there’s something brave about stopping the shutdown. About letting in a single thought like, maybe.

Maybe there’s a morning you want to wake up to. Maybe there’s a place you want to visit. Maybe there’s a feeling you miss that you’d welcome back.

Letting yourself imagine again is not betrayal. It’s not forgetting. It’s not letting go. It’s simply a way of remembering that you are still here — and your life still matters.

Some visions may be blurry. That’s okay. The blurry ones count too.

Setting Goals That Feel Like Care

Grief makes small things feel huge. Dishes. Phone calls. Getting out of bed. So the idea of setting goals might feel like pressure you don’t need.

But goals don’t have to be big or public. They don’t have to be anything anyone else sees.

Maybe your goal is to go outside every day. To drink water. To write one sentence. Maybe it’s to brush your teeth before noon.

These are not checkboxes. They’re kindnesses. They’re ways of tending to your life when everything feels unfamiliar.

Over time, your goals might grow. You might take a class. Join something. Organize a closet. Rearrange your space. But even then — it’s not about fixing yourself.

It’s about being present with yourself. Listening. Creating rhythm in a life that feels like noise.

There’s no gold star. No list to measure yourself against. Only this: care, given gently and without demand.

Letting Dreams Come Closer

One day, something might rise inside you that’s bigger than a task. It might feel like a dream.

Maybe it’s an old one. Maybe it’s new. Maybe it’s shaped by who you are now — someone who knows what loss has taken, and what love has left behind.

Dreaming after loss is vulnerable. You might feel unsure. You might wonder, who am I to want anything again?

But dreaming doesn’t erase your grief. It honors your aliveness.

Maybe you dream of travel. Of building something. Of love again, in some form. Maybe you dream of peace. Or purpose. Or being surprised by joy.

There’s no rule that says grief and dreaming can’t live side by side. In fact, they often do.

Because even hearts that are broken open can hold hope.

Allowing Joy to Have a Place

At first, joy can feel dangerous. Too bright. Too loud. Too soon.

You might pull back from things that once made you smile. You might cancel plans just to avoid the ache of showing up without your person.

That makes sense. Joy is risky when your heart has been through so much.

But then — a shift. A laugh that escapes before you can stop it. A sunset that holds your gaze. A moment you plan and don’t regret.

Let it happen. Let joy tiptoe in.

Not because everything is better. But because even now, you are allowed to feel light.

Joy doesn’t cancel your grief. It keeps you company.

Maybe joy looks like a playlist. Or a hot meal. Or a walk with someone who listens well. Maybe it’s saying yes to something small — and not feeling guilty about it.

Joy might feel complicated. Let it. You don’t have to hold it perfectly. You just have to let it breathe.

A Quiet Permission

There is no clear beginning to whatever comes next.

There is no checklist that says, Now you’re ready.

But when you notice a flicker of possibility… when you picture something, or plan something, or smile at something again… that counts.

It means you’re still here. It means you’re carrying your love forward.

Not leaving it behind. Carrying it.

Whatever life holds from this point on, it’s yours. It doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be brave. It just has to be real.

The path might still be foggy. You don’t have to see the whole thing.

You just have to take the next true step.

And when it appears, take it.

One breath.
One choice.
One sacred inch of future at a time.

💜💚

Staying Here

The Quiet Power of Living One Moment at a Time

After someone you love dies, time gets strange. Mornings hurt. Nights stretch. Even brushing your teeth can feel impossible. The world seems to spin forward while you stay stuck in the ache.

And yet, you’re still here. Still breathing. Still waking up.

Being present after loss isn’t about pretending to be okay. It isn’t about moving on or being grateful all the time. It’s about learning how to stay. Stay with yourself. Stay in your body. Stay in your life, even when it’s heavy with sorrow.

This part of grief isn’t loud. It’s not something most people notice. But it matters. Because presence—real presence, even in short glimpses—is how you begin to steady yourself again. It’s how you start to feel your own life beneath the fog.

Here are some of the quiet places where presence can begin to show up.

The Ordinary as Anchor

When everything has been upended, the smallest acts can become lifelines. Making coffee. Letting the dog out. Folding a towel. There’s nothing glamorous about it, but there’s something grounding.

These simple rhythms don’t erase grief, but they remind your body that you're still here. And that matters.

If your days feel chaotic or shapeless, that’s normal. Grief scrambles your sense of time. But even one tiny rhythm—brushing your teeth in the morning, lighting a candle at night—can begin to shape the edges of your day. You don’t have to do everything. You just have to begin.

Letting Light In, Even When It Feels Wrong

There might come a moment—maybe just one—when something makes you smile. A song. A breeze. A child’s laughter. And then, almost immediately, guilt steps in.

How can I feel joy when they’re gone?

But joy is not betrayal. It’s a sign that you’re alive.

You can feel joy and still miss them. You can laugh and still love them. Grief and gladness are not opposites. They can live side by side. Let that moment of light land. Don’t chase it. But don’t block it either. Let it be what it is—a moment.

Creating Rhythms That Reflect Who You Are Now

There is quiet strength in choosing something. In deciding how your day begins or ends. In picking a small ritual and making it yours.

Light a candle. Write one sentence in a journal. Make the same breakfast every morning. Tend a plant. Play a song. These are not routines for productivity. They are choices that remind you of who you are becoming.

If a full routine feels like too much, try asking your body what it needs. Movement? Stillness? Warmth? Rest? Then give it that, just once. Just enough.

These aren’t rules. They’re invitations.

Soothing the Overwhelm in Your Body

Grief doesn’t just live in your heart. It lives in your nervous system. It tightens your muscles. Speeds up your breath. Floods your brain with alarms.

This is your body trying to protect you.

Sometimes, presence looks like taking a deep breath and placing a hand on your chest. Or wrapping yourself in a blanket. Or putting your feet flat on the ground and feeling gravity hold you.

You don’t have to be calm all the time. You just need enough steadiness to keep going. Tiny practices of self-soothing can help remind your body that, for this moment, you are safe enough to be here.

Presence Isn’t a Performance

You don’t have to be grateful. You don’t have to feel peaceful. You don’t have to fall in love with your life right now.

But if you can notice this moment—and stay with yourself inside it—that’s presence.

Some days you’ll feel more here. Some days you’ll feel far away, like you’re watching life through a window. That’s grief too.

What matters is returning. Not perfectly. Just gently. Returning to your breath. Your body. Your day.

When you stay with yourself, you’re saying: I am worth showing up for.

And that is a powerful act of love.

Questions to Sit With

• What part of my day feels most grounding—and what tends to knock me off center?

• Is there a simple ritual I could try, just once today?

• Have I noticed any moment of peace or warmth lately, even a flicker?

• What does my body feel like when I’m overwhelmed—and what helps me soften just a little?

• Is there a sound, texture, or scent that brings me even a small sense of safety?

• Can I name a moment this week when I felt present, even briefly?

💜💚

Grief Lives Here Now

How Widowed People Learn to Carry Love and Loss in the Same Breath

After the casseroles. After the texts slow down. After the world silently assumes you’re okay — grief doesn’t end.

It just shifts.

It sinks in.

It finds its way into how you breathe. Into how you sit in the quiet. Into the way you reach for your person before you remember.

This part of grief isn’t about surviving the funeral or the firsts. It’s about learning to live with what’s still here. Love. Loss. Longing.

It’s about letting your person come with you into the life you didn’t want — but are still living.

This reflection holds space for what it means to integrate grief into your everyday rhythm. Not to fix it. Not to erase it. But to walk with it. To let your grief breathe beside you. To let your love still matter.

Below are some of the tender places grief tends to show up — again and again — as widowed people learn to live with both love and loss at once.

Keeping the Bond Alive

The love didn’t stop when your person died. But maybe it changed its shape.

Maybe now it shows up in the way you whisper their name into the morning. Or in the way you light a candle on their birthday. Or how you still hear their voice when you’re deciding what to do next.

Some people will tell you to let go. Or move on. Or take the pictures down. But love like this doesn’t go away. It goes deeper.

You’re not “stuck” if you still talk to them. If you still wear your ring. If you keep their sweatshirt folded just so. That’s not strange. That’s sacred.

Integration doesn’t mean forgetting. It means you’re making space for the love to keep living. In you. Through you. Around you.

What do you still love about your person?
How do you carry them with you now?
What small ritual brings them close?

Letting Past and Present Walk Together

Grief splits time in two. Before. After.

And sometimes those two parts of you feel like strangers. You look at an old picture and you ache. Or you smile at something new and feel like you’re betraying them.

But you’re not.

You are allowed to tell old stories and build new ones. You are allowed to cry and to laugh. You are allowed to miss them with your whole being — and still live a life that holds light.

The goal isn’t to get over it. The goal is to live in the and.

I still love him. And I’m showing up for this day.
I still cry. And I’m learning how to carry joy again.

Your past and your present can walk side by side. Even if it’s messy. Even if the ache still flares up out of nowhere. That just means the love was — and still is — real.

Letting Grief Be Part of Who You Are

Some people talk about grief like it’s a season. Like it has an end date. But you know better.

Grief isn’t a chapter you close. It’s a thread that runs through the whole story. It’s in the fabric now.

That doesn’t mean it will always hurt the way it does today. But it does mean you’re forever changed. And maybe that’s not a flaw. Maybe it’s a truth.

You may feel it in your breath. In your decisions. In how you see the world. But that doesn’t make you broken. That makes you human.

You’re not “less than” because you carry grief. You’re just someone who’s known love deeply enough to be altered by its absence.

Some days you’ll feel steady. Some days you won’t. But every day, you’re still here. And that matters.

Finding Meaning Without Needing a Lesson

There doesn’t have to be a reason they died. There doesn’t need to be a silver lining. You don’t have to make sense of the senseless.

But sometimes, without trying, something changes.

You notice more. You soften in ways you didn’t expect. You let go of things that don’t matter. You tell the truth more.

That’s not because grief is a gift. It’s because grief has a way of clearing the noise. It makes you pay attention.

Maybe you start talking about things you used to hide. Maybe you rest when you need rest. Maybe you become someone who can hold space for others.

That doesn’t make your loss worth it. But it does mean that you’re growing — even through the ache.

Meaning doesn’t have to be big or polished. Sometimes it’s just this: I am still here. I am still loving. I am still becoming.

You Don’t Have to Let Go to Move Forward

This isn’t about getting better. It’s about becoming.

It’s about finding a way to live with grief instead of against it. To carry your love into the future. To let your person come with you, even if only in memory and meaning.

You don’t have to let go to move forward. You just have to let grief come too.

It gets to ride alongside you.

And on the days it feels too heavy, let that be okay too. That’s not a sign of failure. That’s a sign of love.

When the People You Need Disappear

Grief rearranges your relationships — painfully, sometimes beautifully. What if support could still find you?

When you lose your person, it’s not just one goodbye. It’s hundreds. One for every relationship that starts to feel different — even the ones you thought would always be solid.

Social support after loss is both essential and elusive. You need people more than ever, and yet it’s never felt harder to find them. The ones who meant well sometimes vanish. The ones you didn’t expect to show up — maybe they do, or maybe no one does. And you’re left wondering what happened. Where did everyone go?

It’s disorienting. And lonely. And sometimes quietly devastating.

But connection — honest, mutual, soul-sustaining connection — still matters. Even now. Especially now. This part of the journey is about finding the people who help you carry the weight — or at least sit beside you while you do. It’s about noticing what still feels safe. What still feels human. And what might be possible.

When the relationships you counted on change

One of the sharpest surprises in widowhood is realizing how many relationships will shift — or disappear altogether. People don’t always know what to say. Some avoid the topic. Some avoid you. Some offer cliché comforts or try to cheer you up when you just need someone to sit with the sorrow.

It’s easy to feel abandoned. Or worse, to start thinking maybe you did something wrong.

You didn’t.

Your grief may feel too big, too real, too uncomfortable for people who haven’t walked through this kind of pain. Your sadness might remind them of what they fear most. Or it might simply ask more of them than they know how to give. That’s not your fault. And it’s not your job to explain it away.

Yes, it hurts. It hurts to realize who disappeared. It hurts to sit in that silence. You’re allowed to grieve the friendships that faded and the people who didn’t stay. It’s still grief. And it still counts.

And — there’s the other side. Sometimes, new people show up. Sometimes old friendships deepen. You start noticing who really sees you. Who listens without fixing. Who can say your person’s name out loud.

It might not be the people you expected. But you get to decide where to place your energy now. You don’t have to chase understanding. You don’t have to shrink yourself to keep others comfortable. You can honor what was — and still move toward what feels true now.

When support feels hard to find

After a big loss, it can feel like the world just keeps spinning — while you’re stuck inside a different universe. People move on. They stop checking in. Or maybe they keep saying all the wrong things. Either way, it can feel like no one really gets it.

If you feel like you have no one — that ache is real. And if reaching out feels hard, that makes sense too. You may have been hurt before. You may be carrying more than you can name.

And yet… something in you still wants connection. Maybe not with a big group. Maybe just one safe person. That’s all it takes.

Support doesn’t always come in grand gestures. Sometimes it’s a text that says, “I thought of you today.” Sometimes it’s someone sitting beside you on the porch while you cry. Sometimes it’s another widow who says, “Me too.”

I remember messaging someone I barely knew just to say, “This day sucks.” She replied: “It really does.” And somehow, that helped.

It might take courage to ask for what you need. But asking isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom. You’re not meant to do this alone. And you don’t have to prove anything by pretending you’re okay.

Look for your people — not a crowd, but a constellation. A few hearts who can hold a piece of your story with care.

When protecting your peace means saying no

Grief can make your nervous system feel like it’s always on high alert. And sometimes, the things people say — even when they’re trying to be kind — can feel like too much. Or just… wrong.

This is where boundaries come in.

Boundaries aren’t walls. They’re not punishments. They’re just signals. Invitations. Truths. Boundaries say, “Here’s what I can hold right now.” They let you take care of your tender heart without having to justify it.

It might sound like:

“I’m not up for talking today, but thank you for reaching out.”
“I don’t need advice right now. I just need someone to be with me.”
“That comment didn’t feel helpful. Can we talk about something else?”

At first, it may feel uncomfortable. You might worry you’re letting people down. But you’re not. You’re practicing care. Every time you say no to what drains you, you say yes to what sustains you.

You can still be kind. You can still love people. And you can also protect your peace. You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to change your mind.

When new connection feels possible again

There may come a time — even if it’s far off — when you start to feel the tug toward connection again. Not like it was before. But something softer. Something curious.

Maybe you join a book club. Maybe you talk to another widow. Maybe you show up at a grief retreat like Camp Widow and feel, for the first time, seen.

At first, it might feel awkward. You might wonder, “Who am I now? What do I say?” That’s okay. You’re not the same person anymore. Grief rearranged everything.

But you’re still here. Still breathing. Still worthy of being known.

Sometimes, you meet people who reflect back a part of you you’d forgotten. Sometimes, you just share a quiet moment with someone who doesn’t need you to be anything but honest. Sometimes, laughter finds you again.

That’s not betrayal. That’s life making room for joy beside the sorrow.

And when you reconnect with others, you might just reconnect with yourself — the part of you that still longs to belong. That still believes in being loved.

What I want you to know

Widowhood reshapes your social world. Sometimes painfully. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes in ways that bring unexpected beauty.

It’s okay if it takes time to find your footing again. It’s okay if you’re still grieving the people who didn’t show up. It’s okay if you’re just starting to let connection back in.

Support doesn’t mean you’re surrounded by people all the time. It means you know who sees you. Who gets it. Who can sit with the messy truth of your grief without trying to fix it.

And sometimes, support comes from beyond this world — from the presence of your person still nearby, from the memories that show up when you need them, from the signs that whisper, “I’m still with you.”

You are allowed to speak your needs.
You are allowed to step away from what hurts.
You are allowed to belong again.
Because you still do.

And connection — it can come back.
It will.
Maybe it already has, in small, quiet ways.

💜💚

Who Am I Now? Finding Yourself After Loss

Grief can shatter your identity. But even in the wreckage, your sense of self is still there — waiting to be remembered.

Sense of Self & Agency: Who Am I Now?

After loss, the question of who am I now? isn’t just philosophical — it’s personal, raw, and often confusing. When you lose the person who made life make sense, it’s natural to feel like you’ve lost yourself too. The roles you held, the way you made decisions, even the way you saw yourself — all of it is shaken.

This chapter is about gently beginning to reclaim your sense of self. Not to force healing or reinvention, but to notice what’s still true inside you — and what might be taking shape.

Identity Isn’t Gone — It’s in Hiding

Grief can make everything feel blurry. You might say things like, “I don’t even know who I am anymore,” or “That part of me died with them.” That feeling makes sense. For a long time, your identity may have been shaped around shared roles, shared dreams, shared daily life. When that person is no longer physically here, your brain and body can struggle to recognize yourself.

But identity doesn’t vanish. It goes quiet. It waits. And with time, attention, and space, it begins to speak again.

You may notice glimmers — a moment where you make a choice because you want it, not because it’s what they would have done. A sudden craving for a food you forgot you loved. A shift in the way you describe yourself: “I’m learning,” or “I’m figuring it out.” These are not small things. They are signs that your sense of self is still alive, even if it’s tender and trembling.

You Are Still You — And You Are Changing

One of the hardest parts of grief is that it changes you. But that change doesn’t erase your past. Instead, it adds layers. You are still the person who loved them. You are still the person who got through the worst moment of your life. And you are also becoming someone new — not by choice, maybe, but through living what you didn’t ask for.

This isn’t about “finding yourself” like some tidy movie plot. It’s about living with the tension: I am the person who loved, the person who lost, and the person who is still here. All at once.

Some days you may feel strong. Other days you may feel hollow. Both are part of you now. And both are valid.

Decisions After Loss: Reclaiming the Right to Choose

When you’re deep in grief, every decision can feel impossible — even small ones like what to eat, when to shower, or whether to answer a text. For a while, survival mode takes over. That’s okay. But at some point, you may start to notice the faint tug of preference. A thought like, “I don’t want to do that,” or “I think I might be ready.”

This is the return of agency — the ability to choose for yourself.

Reclaiming agency doesn’t mean you stop grieving. It means you begin to trust your own voice again. Even when it’s shaky. Even when others don’t understand. Every time you choose something that reflects you, rather than just reacting or pleasing others, you strengthen that muscle.

You might not always get it “right.” But maybe “right” isn’t the goal (also, maybe “rights” doesn’t even exist). Maybe the goal is to honor what’s true for you in this moment.

Inner Strength Doesn’t Always Look Strong

People might say things like, “You’re so strong,” and you might want to scream. Because inside, you don’t feel strong. You feel broken. Tired. Lost.

But strength isn’t about how pulled-together you seem. It’s about what you do with your pain.

If you’ve made it through one single day you didn’t think you could survive, that is strength. If you’ve asked for help, that is strength. If you’ve kept going even when you didn’t want to — especially then — that is strength.

You don’t have to feel powerful to be powerful. And you don’t have “white knuckle” it to be doing it well.

Your Body Is Not the Enemy

Grief lives in the body. It can feel like exhaustion, tension, disconnection. You might lose interest in eating, movement, rest — or feel guilty for caring about those things. But your body is not the enemy. It’s the part of you still showing up.

Taking care of your physical self doesn’t mean chasing some ideal of health or “getting back to normal.” It means noticing what helps you feel steady. It means feeding yourself something that brings comfort. It means choosing rest instead of punishing yourself for not being productive.

Even a short walk. A stretch. A deep breath. These are not small things. They’re acts of aliveness.

Curiosity as a Compass

Eventually, you might notice a spark of curiosity. Maybe there’s a class that catches your eye. Maybe you pick up a book you wouldn’t have read before. Maybe you imagine going somewhere new — even if you don’t actually go.

Curiosity is not frivolous. It’s a form of life force.

You don’t have to turn it into a plan. You don’t have to follow through. But noticing where your attention wanders — what lights up a small part of your mind or heart — can point you toward yourself.

You are allowed to explore. You are allowed to grow. Even now.

Gentle Reflections

If you’d like, take a moment to reflect on one or two of these questions:

• How would you describe yourself today — not just in grief, but in your whole self?

• What’s something you’ve done recently that surprised you?

• Is there a small decision you made for yourself that felt good?

• What’s one thing your body might need right now — comfort, nourishment, stillness?

• Are there parts of yourself you’re starting to miss or long for?

You don’t have to have answers. These are just gentle invitations to notice.

Final Words

You don’t have to rebuild your whole self all at once. You don’t have to know who you are becoming. Just keep listening. Keep choosing small things that feel true. Keep noticing the moments when you feel even a little more like you.

That’s how you begin again. Not by forgetting who you were — but by remembering that you’re still here.

💜💚

How I Started Being Kinder to Myself in Grief

Grief didn’t make me better at self-care.
It made me forget to eat.
It made me stare at the wall for hours.
It made me feel ashamed for crying — and ashamed when I didn’t.

After Gary died, I didn’t wake up wondering, How can I care for myself today?
I woke up wondering, How am I still here?

But over time, something began to surface.

I noticed that every time I judged myself —
for not being productive,
for crying too hard,
for not crying at all,
for still feeling broken —
I didn’t feel motivated.
I just felt worse.

It wasn’t just grief anymore.
It was shame.
And shame is heavy.

So I started to experiment.

What if I let one thing be okay?

What if, instead of saying “I failed,” I said, “That was a lot. No wonder I’m tired.”
What if, instead of calling myself weak, I whispered, “This is hard. And you’re still here.”

At first it felt like I was making excuses.
Like I hadn’t earned the right to be gentle with myself.

But slowly, I saw it differently.

I wasn’t trying to escape grief.
I was trying to survive it.

Kindness wasn’t a reward.
It was a lifeline.

So I kept practicing.

When I couldn’t finish the to-do list, I reminded myself: Grief takes energy.

When I showed up and felt out of place or weepy, I told myself: Trying counts.

When I stayed home instead of going out, I reminded myself: Sometimes rest is the most honest thing I can do.

It wasn’t about pretending I was okay.
It was about telling the truth — with love.

Here’s a moment I remember clearly:

After going to a small art class with a friend, I came home and spiraled.
I don’t know how to be around people anymore.
I’m broken.
I made a fool of myself.

But instead of staying in that place, I paused.

I sat down.
I took a breath.
And I rewrote the story.

You went.
You tried something new.
You spent time with someone who matters.
You showed up.

And I ended that journal entry with one sentence:
I’m proud of myself for trying.

That changed everything.

I still have hard days.
Days I slip into self-judgment.
But now I notice it.
Now I know how to interrupt it.
Now I know that being gentle with myself is part of how I keep going.

If today you’ve been hard on yourself —
if you’ve called yourself lazy or broken or not enough —
please hear this:

You’re not failing.
You’re grieving.

That’s what this is.
This is what love looks like when the person you love is gone.

You don’t have to be better yet.
You don’t have to be strong.

But maybe — just for this moment —
you can be a little softer with yourself.

Even just tonight.

What Helped Me When I Couldn’t Eat or Sleep

I couldn’t eat or sleep for the whole first year.

I’m not exaggerating. That’s just how it was.

Let’s start with food.
I used to cook all the time when Gary was alive. I was a vegan back then, so there was always chopping, prepping, thinking ahead. But after he died, I couldn’t even open the fridge without crying. It felt like my body shut down around food.

I ordered groceries every week, telling myself this week will be different. I imagined salads and real meals. Then I threw most of it away. The only thing I could really manage was pita and hummus. I could microwave the pita, tear it up with my hands, and dip it. That was it.

That was my meal. Sometimes for the whole day.

I felt so guilty about it. I kept shaming myself, thinking I should be eating better. I should be doing better. But one day, after journaling and reading back through all the harsh things I was saying to myself, I stopped and asked, Would I talk to my daughter like this?

Of course not. So why was I saying it to myself?

I looked at that pita and hummus and realized they have kept me alive. They gave me enough energy to cry. Enough to keep breathing. Enough to stay here.

That’s not failure. That’s grace.

Eventually I started saying thank you to the pita and hummus.

Now let’s talk about sleep.

At first, I was exhausted all the time. Grief wears you out in ways no one tells you. I could fall asleep, but I couldn’t stay asleep. I would wake up in the dark, crying. Or I would cry myself to sleep and wake up puffy and empty.

I tried sleep aids. Valerian root. Melatonin. That helped a little.

But the thing that helped most was creating a rhythm. Not a routine with checklists and rules. Just a rhythm my body could recognize.

Around month two, I started writing Gary a letter each night before bed. Just a little note. What I was feeling. What the day had been like. That small act grounded me. It let me feel connected to him. I’m still doing it now, three and a half years later.

Later I added a gratitude journal. At first it was basic stuff.
I got dressed today.
I made it through work.
The microwave still works.

Then I started writing five things I was grateful I did.
Some days it was, I ate something green.
Other days it was, I went for a walk.
Sometimes just, I didn’t give up today.

Eventually I even made space to write five things I liked about myself. I didn’t always believe them. But writing them helped me look at myself with a little more kindness. On the days I’m being especially harsh, I go back to that. It helps shift my lens from what’s broken to what’s still working.

If you’re in that place where nothing feels okay, where food tastes like nothing and sleep feels impossible, I just want to tell you this.

You are not doing it wrong.
You are grieving. And that changes everything.

There is no perfect answer. But if you find something that works, even just barely works, that is enough. Whether it’s pita and hummus or writing to your person or sleeping in short bursts. If it keeps you here, it matters.

And if you ever want someone to talk to, someone who understands this kind of grief, I offer a free 45-minute call. I call it Holding the Ember: A Conversation of Hope. No pressure. Just a place to say what’s real.

You can sign up here: EmberandBloomCoaching.com

A New Way to See What’s Inside

When you lose your person, your mind feels like it runs on its own. Thoughts can come fast and loud. Thoughts like, I can’t do this alone. I am not enough without him. I don’t know how. I am failing. I simply cannot.

I know these thoughts well. I have thought them too.

After Gary died, I felt like I had to figure out everything all by myself. I had only ever worked through life with him. Every big thing and every small thing, we did together. I had no practice living without him. The thought of doing it all alone felt impossible.

I want to share something that helped me understand what was going on inside me. It did not fix me or take away the grief. But it gave me a map. It is called The Model, created by Brooke Castillo.

The Model helps us see the steps inside us. It looks like this:

Circumstances → Thoughts → Feelings → Actions → Results

Circumstances

Circumstances are the facts. They are things that happen outside of us. We can’t change them.

For me, the fact is simple and brutal: Gary died.

The hardest part was that now, I had to figure out everything alone. From flat tires to taxes to handling sickness, I was on my own.

Thoughts

Thoughts are what we make those facts mean. They are the words and sentences running in our heads.

When I thought, I can’t do this alone, I felt small and scared. Other thoughts came too.

• I am not enough without him.

• I don’t know how.

• I am failing at everything.

• It’s unfair that I have to.

• I simply cannot.

These thoughts did not just appear once. They played like a broken record in my mind.

Feelings

Thoughts create feelings.

When I thought I was failing, I felt overwhelmed. When I thought I was not enough, I felt deep fear and sadness.

Other feelings came too. Anxiety. Exhaustion. A sense of being unworthy. A heavy fog that sat on my shoulders.

Sometimes, my whole body felt it. I would shake. I would cry until I could not breathe. My chest felt like it might pop. I felt frozen and restless at the same time.

Actions

Feelings shape what we do or don’t do.

I often did nothing. I avoided tasks. I stayed in bed or avoided sleep. I over-researched, doubted, asked and asked and asked, then did nothing. I fidgeted and felt restless.

When I felt these heavy feelings, I could not eat. The house got messier. The laundry piled up. I felt stuck.

Results

Actions create results.

My inaction and overwhelm made the house feel more chaotic. The mess and undone tasks made me feel even more alone and scared.

These results proved my thoughts true. See? I really can’t do this alone. I really am failing.

It became a circle that felt impossible to break.

A tiny place to start

I learned that the only place I had any gentle power was in my thoughts.

I could not change the fact that Gary died. I could not change that I had to do things alone. But I could notice my thoughts and look for a softer one.

This did not mean forcing happy thoughts. It meant tiny cracks of light.

From my journals, I found small new thoughts:

• I forgive myself for not being the way I want to be.

• Gary loves me and thinks I am worthy.

• It is ok to feel joy and grief together.

• I am taking it one day at a time. Every day counts.

• I am loved.

These thoughts did not make me happy. But they softened the edges of my pain. They helped me stand up for myself. They helped me do one small thing at a time.

You can do this

If you feel ready, try this gentle practice.

Write down:

1. A hard thought you are having today.

2. The feeling that thought gives you.

3. What that feeling makes you do or not do.

4. What result that creates in your life.

Then ask yourself if there is a new thought you might try. It does not have to be bright or positive. It only needs to feel a tiny bit lighter or more true.

Closing

The Model does not erase grief. It does not take away love. It does not fix the missing or the longing.

But it can help us see that we are not broken. We are humans with minds that try to protect us, even when they hurt us. We can learn to watch our thoughts like a gentle friend sitting beside us.

You are not alone. You do not have to rush. You do not have to change everything.

I am here beside you, one breath and one small thought at a time.

💜💚

5 Ways to Feel Better When Grief Punches You in the Face

Some days, grief feels like it jumps out and punches you in the face. It might happen in the grocery store, or when you see your person’s favorite mug, or when you hear a song that reminds you of them. You might feel dizzy, knocked down, or like you can’t even breathe.

I have felt that too. One time, I was standing in my kitchen, and I suddenly felt like the whole world had stopped. I could not even move. I remember thinking, “How am I supposed to keep going like this?”

On days like this, you don’t have to fix everything. You just need one gentle step to help your heart keep going. Here are five things you can try today.

1. Try a soft breath

When grief hits hard, our body gets stuck in “danger” mode. Taking a slow, soft breath can tell your body, “I am safe right now.”

Put your hand on your chest or your belly. Take a slow breath in through your nose and count to four. Then breathe out through your mouth and count to four again.

You can do this once or a few times. Even one breath can help you feel a little more steady.

2. Step outside if you can

Nature can hold us in a way words cannot. Stepping outside helps you remember there is a world still moving around you.

Feel the sun or the wind on your face. Listen for birds or look at the clouds. You can even stand on the porch or open a window if you can’t go far.

Sometimes seeing a tree or touching a plant can remind your heart, “I am still here.”

3. Use your senses to calm your heart

When grief feels big, our thoughts can spin fast. Using your senses helps bring you back to this moment.

Try this simple practice:

• Name five things you can see (like the lamp, a book, your hands).

• Name four things you can touch (like the chair, your shirt, your hair).

• Name three things you can hear (a clock, the fridge, birds).

• Name two things you can smell (soap, tea, or even just the air).

• Name one thing you can taste (your tea, water, or even nothing).

This helps your mind slow down and your body feel more grounded.

4. Drink cold water or warm tea

When we are deep in grief, we sometimes forget to care for our body. Drinking something cold can help you feel awake. Drinking something warm can feel like a soft hug inside.

If you want, try both. Notice how it feels in your mouth and in your chest. This small act can remind you that you matter and deserve care.

5. Write to your person

Writing can help release some of the heavy feelings inside. Take a piece of paper or a journal. Write a letter to your person.

Tell them what is on your heart today. Maybe you want to tell them about something that happened. Maybe you just want to say, “I miss you.”

You do not have to share this letter. You can keep it private. This is just for you and your love.

You don’t have to do all five

One is enough. Even one small step is a brave act of love.

Your grief shows how deeply you love. You do not have to do this alone. You are still here. You are carrying so much love.