Fear Weeds

This morning after dropping Trinity off at the bus stop, I came back home and just stood there looking out into the backyard. Looking at all the trees. Looking at the house. Looking at everything around me.

And instead of seeing beauty, I saw responsibility.

I saw things that needed maintenance. Things that could break. Things that cost money. Things that depended on me.

And suddenly, I felt overwhelmed all over again.

Sometimes grief is not just crying. Sometimes grief looks like standing in your garage staring at years of accumulated life and feeling buried underneath it all.

The riding lawnmower.

The work equipment.

The furniture.

The boxes.

The memories.

The responsibilities.

The decisions.

It all started feeling heavy.

And I realized something.

Fear in grief is a lot like weeds.

You can cut one down, and another one sprouts up somewhere else.

One day it’s fear about finances. Another day it’s fear about being alone. Another day it’s fear about the future. Then fear about health. Fear about purpose. Fear about work. Fear about whether you’ll mentally or emotionally make it through this version of life.

And sometimes these fears don’t even come one at a time. They come up together, all fighting for your attention at once.

You cut one down temporarily, but because the root is still there, another one appears.

I think for a long time I was just trying to survive by pushing a lot of things aside. Staying in the moment helped me.

Going to the gym.

Writing.

Making cards.

Working on books.

Cooking meals.

Going shopping.

Doing karaoke even though it felt awkward at first.

Going to church.

Sharing pieces of myself online.

Trying to create.

Trying to feel alive again.

And honestly, those things did help me.

Not because they erased grief. But because they reminded me that I was still here underneath it.

But every now and then, reality hits me hard all over again.

The loss of my husband has devoured me in ways I still cannot fully explain. Sometimes I look around and realize how much of my emotional safety was connected to him simply being here.

He was my peace.

My comfort.

My stability.

My best friend.

The person I built life with for over two decades.

And now I’m learning what it means to stand in a life that no longer looks or feels the same.

That truth is frightening.

I think one of the hardest parts about grief is realizing you are no longer the same person you once were. And if I’m honest, that scares me too.

Sometimes I wonder if anybody else feels like this. Like they’re carrying around invisible fear containers inside them. Some buried deeper than others. Some quieter than others. But all still there beneath the surface waiting for the right trigger.

Maybe that’s why I wanted to write this.

Because maybe somebody else is standing in their kitchen, garage, backyard, or bedroom feeling the exact same overwhelm and thinking they’re losing their mind.

Maybe somebody else is trying their best to keep cutting down fear weeds while silently wondering if the roots will ever stop growing back.

I don’t have all the answers.

But I do know this: you are not the only one carrying fears that keep resurfacing after loss.

And maybe healing is not pretending the weeds don’t exist. Maybe healing starts with finally being honest enough to admit they do.