I didn’t plan to write this.
Not like this.
Grief isn’t neat or poetic. It doesn’t arrive with clean lines and tidy meaning. It just shows up. Some days it’s a whisper. Some days it sits on my chest.
Since losing my husband, I’ve carried many things, sadness, anxiety, disbelief. But I’ve also carried groceries, routines, appointments, conversations, the strange rhythm of days that go on. I’ve smiled when I didn’t want to. I’ve answered messages when I felt like disappearing. I’ve remembered to feed myself. That counts for something.
People say I’m strong. And maybe I am. But this strength wasn’t a gift. I built it. Brick by brick. Breath by breath. When no one else was watching.
And I’ll be honest: I wish I didn’t always have to be strong.
But here I am. Writing, creating, trying, not because I’ve figured it all out, but because I haven’t. And maybe you haven’t either.
If you’re carrying something too, pain, memory, solitude, the weight of what’s next, you’re not alone.
Let this space be a gentle pause.
Let it be a candle in the quiet.
Let it remind us both that even after loss, life still makes room for beginning again.
We don’t have to rush.
We just have to begin.
God Willing.