When The Waves Reurn

Sometimes I want to throw in the towel.

Raise the yellow flag.

Admit that I’m defeated.

Because there are days when my husband’s absence still feels like the heaviest, most painful thing I’ve ever carried.

Even saying “painful” doesn’t quite describe it. I don’t know if there are words that can truly describe the magnitude of losing the person you thought you would spend the rest of your life with.

But today, an image came to me.

Imagine being handpicked and placed right in the middle of a huge field of weeds.

Not grass.

Tall, thick weeds with razor-sharp edges.

You can’t see your way out. You can’t stand still because the wind is blowing hard, pushing the weeds against you. And when you try to walk through them, there’s no way to completely avoid getting cut.

You twist.

You turn.

You try to maneuver around them.

It doesn’t matter.

They’re coming from every direction.

They’re scratching you. Piercing you. Opening your skin. You’re bleeding, and it’s not pretty.

And the craziest part?

Nobody outside of that field can really see what’s happening to you in there.

That’s what grief can feel like.

Today, I was back in those weeds.

I Thought These Wounds Had Scabbed Over

It’s been a while since I’ve felt this emotionally distraught.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt a cut this deep.

I could’ve sworn some of these wounds were healing.

I thought they had scabbed over.

Apparently, something broke one open.

And of all things, it started with a Facebook Reel.

I had created a Reel some time ago using photos of my husband and me. It was this journey through our relationship, our marriage, our life together.

The song I used was Cassandra Wilson’s version of Time After Time.

That song mattered to me.

The Reel mattered to me.

It represented our love, our marriage and the enormous hole his death left in my life.

At some point, Facebook removed the music.

So I found myself trying to preserve the Reel and somehow reconnect that song to it. It sounds like such a little thing.

But grief will show you very quickly that sometimes the little things aren’t little at all.

There I was looking at those images again.

Our life.

Our faces.

Our memories.

And suddenly the waves came crashing back.

Two years and four months.

That’s how long it’s been since my husband died.

And there I was thinking:

I still don’t get it.

How am I here?

How did this become my life?

How have I gone through everything I’ve gone through, and how am I supposed to figure out everything that’s still ahead?

It hurt.

That’s the Part About Grief That Still Amazes Me

The waves.

Up.

Down.

Back up.

And sometimes crashing down again.

I’ve had good days. I’ve had really good days.

I just celebrated my 55th birthday and allowed myself to let go, be free and actually have fun.

And I mean FUN.

I laughed.

I danced.

I celebrated.

I felt energized.

I felt hopeful about life.

And then here comes another day when a Facebook Reel and a song can have me standing emotionally in a field of razor-sharp weeds.

That’s the contradiction I’m still learning to live with.

I can genuinely enjoy my life and still desperately miss my husband.

Both are true.

Sometimes Widowhood Feels Like a Job

I read somewhere that widowhood is a job.

And Lord, that made sense to me.

Because sometimes this job is exhausting.

Even doing nothing can be exhausting.

You can sit there physically doing absolutely nothing while your mind is working overtime.

Thinking.

Remembering.

Questioning.

Trying to understand.

Trying not to understand.

Trying to figure out who you are now.

That question alone can feel like a full-time job.

Who am I now?

Sometimes I end the day with the same question I woke up with.

There are days when I suppress it long enough to brave it up, smile, enjoy the people around me and be present in the moment.

But it’s still there.

Because losing your spouse doesn’t only mean losing a person.

It alters things.

How you live.

How you think.

How you see yourself.

How you imagine the future.

The responsibilities you carry.

The plans you made.

The person you expected to grow old beside.

Whether you’re working, not working, raising children, living alone, caring for family or simply trying to get through an ordinary Tuesday, you’re doing all of that while carrying something that has changed the structure of your life.

And that’s a lot.

Everything Changes in a Moment

For some people, there is a long illness before the loss.

Maybe you were the caregiver.

Maybe you watched the person you love become sick and witnessed their health deteriorate over time.

That carries its own pain.

But there is still a moment.

That moment when they take their last breath.

That moment when they are no longer physically here.

That moment when you become a widow.

And suddenly you’re thrust into a life you didn’t apply for.

You’re figuring things out while grieving.

There can be paperwork.

Finances.

Family.

Children.

A house.

Legal matters.

Decisions.

Responsibilities.

And sometimes so much outside interference that you barely have enough room to understand what’s happening inside of you.

That’s why I believe so strongly in support.

And boundaries.

Sometimes you have to protect the space you need to grieve.

You have to give yourself permission to figure out what this new life looks like without everybody else telling you what it should look like.

Because defining a new normal takes time.

And I mean time.

Not somebody else’s timeline.

Yours.

Peace Is Not Forgetting

I think that’s something I’m finally beginning to understand.

For a long time, accepting this life felt almost like agreeing with what happened.

Like somehow making peace with my husband’s absence meant I was okay with losing him.

I’m not.

I don’t think I ever will be.

But maybe peace isn’t saying:

I’m okay that you’re gone.

Maybe peace is saying:

I’m going to allow myself to live even though you’re gone.

There’s a difference.

Peace isn’t forgetting.

Peace isn’t loving him less.

Peace isn’t packing away our life together and pretending it never happened.

Maybe peace is slowly lowering my guard.

Lowering some of the fear.

Lowering some of the worry.

And becoming open to the good that is still available to me.

Good laughter.

Good friendships.

Good experiences.

Good relationships.

Good days.

Maybe even new people and experiences I haven’t met yet.

That sounds easier writing it than living it.

Trust me.

I know what I feel internally.

I know how hard some days are.

And that’s why I’m beginning to give myself credit for something I once overlooked.

Showing up.

There is bravery in continuing to show up for a life you never imagined having to live.

There is bravery in getting out of bed when you don’t feel like it.

There is bravery in laughing again.

There is bravery in going somewhere and having a wonderful time while part of your heart still aches for someone who isn’t there.

There is bravery in continuing to live.

Maybe That’s My New Normal

Not a life without grief.

Not a life where I finally stop missing my husband.

Not some magical day when every wound completely disappears and nothing ever triggers me again.

Maybe my new normal is knowing there may always be some weeds.

There may always be another wave.

There may always be moments when something unexpectedly breaks open a wound I thought had already scabbed over.

But maybe I’m also learning how to walk through the field.

Maybe I’m learning that when the wave knocks me down, I can eventually stand back up.

Maybe I’m learning that the pain doesn’t have to take every good thing with it.

And maybe I’m learning that making peace with the present doesn’t mean betraying the past.

It simply means I’m giving myself permission to have a future.

So if you’re somewhere in those weeds right now, I won’t tell you to hurry through them.

I won’t tell you that you should be over it.

I won’t tell you that enough time has passed.

I will tell you to protect your space.

Find support.

Give yourself grace.

And when you’re able, remain open to the possibility that there can still be something good beyond what you can see right now.

You don’t have to forget the life you had to begin living the life that’s still here.

I’m learning that too.

And some days, I’m still learning it one wave at a time.