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.