Grief is strange. It doesn’t fade on a schedule, and it doesn’t just hurt — sometimes it comforts. My family just celebrated our youngest grandson’s birthday this past weekend. For me, it’s also a time marker—five years of joy with little E and five years without our big E.
When he died, I didn’t only lose him. I also lost the certainty and meaning I felt in my life when he was here. His love gave me an anchor. Without him, I felt like I was floating without direction.
Even now, the sadness comes and goes, as does the joy. Some days I want to move forward and stop feeling this heaviness. Other days, the grief feels like the only way I can still touch him. It reminds me of the love we had, of the version of myself I was with him. And honestly, that can feel like a gift.
When I ask myself what he would want for me, the answer is always the same. He’d want me to carry the love, not the sadness. He always wanted me to follow my heart, to choose joy, to never shrink my life down to pain. Knowing that is easy — living it is harder.
Life has carried me into another relationship now, with someone who was close to him. I love this man deeply, but our relationship is complicated at times. We share laughter and connection. There are moments of challenge and uncertainty. I find myself asking, “What would he want me to do?”
The truth I keep coming back to is this: he wouldn’t want me to suffer or be unhappy. He wouldn’t want me to abandon myself. He’d want me to protect my happiness and carry forward the best of what we shared. In my heart, I already knew this. Life gets complicated. We easily get lost in the moments of the day instead of looking at the big picture. All of this has taught me that today could be the last for one of us.
Grief, I’ve learned, isn’t something you move on from. It’s something you carry differently over time. Some days it’s heavier, some days lighter, but it’s always a part of the love that shaped you. I try to honor that by creating small rituals. These include writing letters to him. I also play a song that reminds me of him, or simply sit with my memories and allow myself to feel them fully.
At the same time, I allow space for the present. I try to notice joy when it comes and let laughter fill the quiet moments. I allow myself to love again without guilt. There’s no need to choose between remembering the past and living the present; I can do both.
I’ve realized that carrying someone’s love forward doesn’t mean keeping them trapped in sadness but letting their memory guide you, inspire you, and remind you of the feeling of being fully known and loved. It means living in a way that honors the love they gave you — by caring for yourself, pursuing your heart’s desires, and opening to the possibility of joy.
Grief doesn’t disappear, but it changes. And in that change, I’ve found a kind of freedom. I can carry him with me, in memory and in spirit, while still building a life that is rich, full, and alive. Perhaps that is the truest way to honor him — not by staying sad, but by living the life he always wanted me to have.
