Journal Entry 10/28/2025
I find it so profound and cruelly ironic that I’ve moved to Illinois not once, not twice, but three times with someone. Each time, it was with the same hope: to start fresh, to build a life of love and purpose, to make a home where we could both belong.
The first time was with Eric — my husband, my partner for twenty-two years, my best friend. We moved for his dream, for his life’s work. We both believed it was the beginning of something new — a chapter of success and fulfillment after years of hard work and faith in each other. And then, without warning, his heart gave out. An undiagnosed condition stole him away, and with him went the life we had built, the rhythm of everything I knew. That loss was so complete it didn’t even feel real. I left Illinois because I couldn’t bear to stay in the place where our future ended overnight.
The second time was with Greg. I was trying to find something of me again, to rebuild what was lost, and to create something meaningful for both of us. We left because I wasn’t adjusting to life the way I thought I could — I was still carrying so much pain, still unsteady — and my father-in-law needed me home. It wasn’t failure, exactly, but it was unfinished, and I carried that ache with me.
The third time was another attempt to start over — to get away, to start fresh, and to finally build a home where Greg and I could truly thrive and put everything behind us. I wanted peace. I wanted us to grow together, to heal together. And then, once again, it all ended. This time in the most unimaginable way.
Now I sit with the weight of all three — love, loss, hope, destruction — and I can hardly comprehend it. The first time, tragedy. The second, transition. The third, trauma. Each move felt like a new chapter, but somehow they all end the same: with me, standing in the ruins of what I built, wondering how to start again.
I feel like I’ve spent years building homes inside other people — places I thought I could rest, where love would be enough to keep us safe. But maybe now, I need to build a home inside myself. One that can’t be taken away. One that stays, even when no one else does.
