This morning, I walked through my daughter’s house and caught glimpses of my late husband Eric in photos. Pictures of him, frozen in time. It’s strange how someone who was once my entire world can now feel so far away, like he belongs to another version of me I can barely access. Another lifetime. Another self.
There was a time when seeing his face in a photo could split me wide open. Now it barely moves the needle. And that feels like a betrayal, even though I know it isn’t. I know this is what time does. I know he would understand. He always understood everything about me before I ever had to say a word.
He was my partner, my home, my biggest cheerleader in life, for 23 years. He knew me in ways no one ever had before, and maybe ever will again. But that part of my story feels dim right now, not gone, just buried under something heavier.
Because then came another.
Greg… he opened my heart but in a different way. He was the love of my life in this chapter. He was my twin flame, and it was hard for me to admit at first. This was the kind of love that makes the rest of the world feel blurry. We had our chaos, our plans, our morning hopes. We had our laughter, our softness, and a future we kept building even while the ground beneath him was crumbling.
Losing him has rearranged something inside me.
It’s the kind of grief that overshadows every room you walk into.
It’s the grief that doesn’t ask permission.
Sometimes I can’t even feel my old life because this pain is too loud, too present, too immediate. It isn’t fair, but it’s the truth. And I guess the heart can only hold the fire that’s burning hottest.
I keep thinking about this idea of home.
Because home used to be a person.
Twice.
And now both of those people are gone, and I’m here trying to figure out where I live inside myself.
I miss the security of being known so deeply.
I miss being understood without explaining.
I miss having someone to come back to at the end of the day, someone who felt like mine and who saw me as theirs.
Today I’m sitting alone in the quiet house after everyone left for work and school, and I’m realizing this:
My grief today isn’t really about losing either of them.
It’s about losing the version of me who existed when I still had a home in someone else.
Maybe one day the memories of Eric will soften and return.
Maybe one day the pain of losing Greg won’t crush my chest.
Maybe one day “home” will be something I feel inside myself, instead of something I chase outside of me.
But today, in this exact moment, I’m just a woman. Alone in the quiet, learning how to occupy my own life again.
Learning how to breathe through the emptiness.
Learning how to be here without the people who once held my world together.
It’s raw, and it’s real, and it hurts.
But I’m still here.
Thanks for reading –xxooC
Tell Me Something Good