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.

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.