You Can Laugh and Still Ache

A Day in Chicago: Holding Joy and Missing Him

A quiet moment by the water, wishing I could lean against him.

There are days in grief that hold more than one thing. Today was one of those days.

We take the train into Chicago to celebrate Victoria’s birthday. The sound of the tracks, the sway of the train, the way the city slowly comes into view. I have done this ride before, when the kids were younger and he was right there with us.

Back then, it felt simple. Just a day in the city. Just us, together.

Today, it feels different. Fuller in some ways. Heavier in others.

The kids are excited. The city is loud and alive. We visit unique museums where we all touch and explore. We stop for lunch and a few coffee breaks. Later, we get ice cream, knowing cake and presents are waiting for us at the end of the day.

There is laughter. There is movement. There is that full kind of chaos that comes from being together.

It is a good day.

And Gary is everywhere.

Not in a way that takes anything from the day. Not in a way that pulls me out of it. But in the quiet, steady way that love shows up. I watch the kids and I laugh with them. I am here.

And I miss him.

Both are true.

At one point, we sit down along the river to rest. The city moves around us, water passing by, people walking, boats drifting through. I can feel the tired in my body from the day. The kind of tired that settles in deep. The kind that reminds me I can be strong and tired at the same time.

There is a quiet there by the water. A steady rhythm. And even in that calm, the ache is still with me. I can feel a small sense of peace and still feel how much I want him beside me.

And in that moment, I want one thing so deeply.

I want to lean against him.

I can almost feel where he would be sitting. I can almost feel the weight of him next to me, the ease of resting into him without even thinking about it.

But he is not there.

And still, I sit. I breathe. I stay.

This is something I know now.

Grief does not ask us to choose between joy and missing them.

You can laugh and still ache.
You can feel the day and still feel the absence.
You can be right in the middle of life and still wish they were beside you.
You can build a life and still miss the one you had.

Sometimes, when I notice myself really laughing, there is a small moment where guilt tries to show up. It is quick, but it is there.

I notice it.

And I remind myself of something true.

Living does not mean loving him less.

Letting life in does not push him out. You can let life in and still hold your love. His place in my heart is not at risk. It is steady. It is still here.

I carry him into days like this. Into the train rides. Into the noise of the city. Into the laughter and the movement of life.

My heart can be full of this day and still full of missing him.

Both belong.

Maybe you are feeling this duality too. The mix of joy and ache. The moments that feel good and then confusing right after.

I know how unsettling that can feel.

When I was in that place, I had someone who helped me make sense of what was happening inside me. That support changed me. It helped me understand how to carry both parts of this life.

If you find yourself wanting that kind of support, I offer that now to other widows.

You can book a Holding the Ember conversation with me. A place to talk through what this life feels like and how to carry both parts of it.

You do not have to sort through this alone.