Category Archives: Thoughts and Notes

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Destinations, Grief

Place-Anchored Grief: Returning Home

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sunset at the fort in st augustine place-anchored grief

(Note) *Place-anchored grief is when grief is tied to a place. Deferred grief is exactly what it sounds like. I wanted to give these contexts before continuing.

A Healing Holiday

The holidays have come and gone. I just arrived back at the apartment after two and a half weeks away. Two of those weeks were spent in Florida. It wasn’t the trip I expected, but it was healing in its own way. What I didn’t expect was how I felt while I was gone versus how I feel now that I’m back. I expected to move through the trauma and grief feelings of the past few months, and I thought I had.

What’s strange is that while I was gone, I barely cried over Greg or Eric. Once, maybe — when I was really drunk and alone, and the weight hit too hard. But otherwise, the grief stayed quiet. The trauma had minimal impact. I could talk to strangers about both of them and feel it without drowning in it. I didn’t expect that.

A New Kind of Grief: Place-Anchored

Now that I’m back, it feels like I’ve been dropped straight back into October when the trauma first happened. I’m learning this is called Place-Anchored and Defered Grief, and it’s hitting me different.

It’s the new year, almost the middle of January. Suddenly, I’m immersed in memories of Greg, our time together, and losing him in such a tragic way. Not in a reflective way. In a physical way. Like my body remembers before my mind can catch up. It feels like hitting a wall I didn’t know was still standing. A weight I don’t know how to lift.

I think the grief waited here.

While I was away, the grief and memories of all my loss and trauma softened. Not because it was gone, but because I was gone. Distance gave me space to breathe. My nervous system finally exhaled. But this apartment holds everything from my past three-plus-year relationship. Every piece of furniture. Every object. Where we placed things. How we used them. Nothing here is neutral.

Everything was a mutual decision.

That realization hit me today. Greg will always be here because we built this space together. I will always feel his presence as long as I’m here. Right now, I don’t know if that’s a comfort or a burden. Maybe it’s both.

The Unexpected Comfort

There’s something strange about being thrown back into a grief you thought you had moved through. It doesn’t feel like I am going backward. It feels like there is unfinished business. Like the grief was deferred, waiting for the place where it was born to pick up where I left off.

I just want to sit with it.

There is comfort in this ache, even as it hurts. This space knows everything. It knows the life we were building. It remembers even when I can’t hold it all at once. And maybe that’s why it feels so heavy — because it’s holding too much for me, too much of me.

I don’t know yet what comes next. I don’t know if staying here will help me heal or keep me tethered. I’m not ready to decide that.

For now, I’m allowing the grief to exist where it belongs. I’m letting this place speak. I’m letting myself feel what waited for me to return.

Thanks for reading — xxooC

anchored-grief me on a boat in florida
Grief, Thoughts and Notes

Alone But Not Abandoned

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Releasing Control

I worked a white magic spell a few days ago. Nothing dramatic. No expectation that it would fix anything. Just an intention to release what I can not control and find peace in that knowing.

I didn’t expect much to come from it, especially this soon. But yesterday and today have been the most peaceful days I’ve had in the many weeks since Greg left.

That doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. I do, every day. I miss his presence. His energy. I miss my person and the home we were building together over the last three plus years. I miss the life I thought we still had time to grow into. That grief is still here. It hasn’t disappeared at all. It probably never will.

But something is different.

Solitude and Silence Reframed

I’m learning to embrace the solitude and the silence instead of fighting them. To welcome them as friends, not foes. And that feels strange to admit, because for a long time, silence terrified me. The trauma of Eric, the PTSD, the anxiety that followed. Being alone felt like a punishment. Something I was trying to outrun.

There was a time not long ago when I wanted this. When I wished for quiet. For independence. For space to breathe without managing someone else’s pain alongside my own. I didn’t choose how I got here, but here I am.

Eric is proud of me. I know that in my soul. He always believed in my strength more than I did. I am caring for myself and for Odin and Freija on my own. All while managing a life that feels impossibly heavy some days. And he would smile, quietly, the way he used to when he knew I was doing something hard and necessary.

I am surviving.

Independence Without Isolation

Not just existing. Surviving. I’m showing up for myself. I’m engaging with friends and family instead of disappearing, which I got so good at the first time around. I’m letting people check in. I’m allowing myself to be cared for without feeling like it erases my independence.

I still miss both of them. I always will. I miss being a “we.” I miss the shared moments, the inside jokes, the energy of another person in this space. But I’m also learning that I can hold that grief without it swallowing me whole.

There is pride here, too. Quiet pride. The kind that feels almost wrong to name, but deserves acknowledgement. I am doing this. Alone, but not abandoned. Independent, but not isolated.

The Truth

This peace may not last. I know that. Grief is not linear, and nights are still hard. But it exists right now, and that matters. I’m allowing myself to sit inside it without questioning how long it will stay.

For now, that is enough.

Thanks for reading –xxooC

Grief, Thoughts and Notes

The Ritual of Letting Go and Keeping What Matters

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Coming Home to a Space That Feels Different Now

I came home yesterday and walked into my apartment. It felt different. Not better or worse, just heavier in some places and strangely calm in others. Like the walls remembered what happened here and were waiting for me to say something about it. I kept grounding myself by repeating, in my head, that this is my home now. It all still feels shared with ghosts, echoes, and memories that don’t quite know where to sit.

And then I opened the closet.

Touching His Things for the First Time

For months, that door held its own weight. I didn’t realize how much it represented until I was standing in front of it, staring at his clothes. My body remembered how many times he emptied it during those spiraling nights. How fast things moved, how loud everything felt. Every shirt and pair of pants felt like a landmine wired to some memory I wasn’t sure I could survive touching.

But yesterday, I touched them anyway.

Sorting, Touching, Choosing

I started moving his clothes into bags, one slow piece at a time. My hands shook a little. My breath caught at moments I didn’t expect. It felt like grief and relief and guilt and peace all tangled in the same knot. I kept thinking: letting go isn’t the same thing as throwing him away. It isn’t betrayal. It’s protection and self-preservation. It’s making sure my heart has room to keep beating.

I kept a few things. A sweatshirt, a couple of pairs of lounge pants — the soft stuff that still feels like comfort instead of chaos. I don’t know what will happen to them. They’re not shrines. They’re just pieces of the past that don’t hurt to hold.

Everything else… was put away.

What Gets Put Away, What Gets Let Go

I took down the artwork that was “us.” I rolled up the rug and moved the futon he brought into this space. Slowly, quietly, I started packing things into storage. I didn’t have a dramatic moment about it — just this steady realization that my apartment doesn’t need to be a museum to a relationship that broke under the weight of its own storms.

And something shifted.

As soon as I moved my own coats into the closet, I felt it: a strange, tender peace. Sad, yes. Heavy, yes. But also… clearer. Like some part of me had been holding my breath for months and didn’t know it until now. I stood in that room, and it finally felt like mine again. Not all the way, but enough.

Wanting to Stay, Wanting to Leave

There’s still confusion, of course. Part of me wants to stay in this home another year because it’s familiar and safe. Another part wants to flee the moment my lease ends because everything here is haunted. I’m trying to let that be okay — the not-knowing—the living in two truths at once.

Because that’s what letting go looks like right now.

What Letting Go Really Means

Not erasing him.

Not pretending he didn’t matter.

Just giving myself the space to grieve and breathe without drowning.

Yesterday was painful and sacred. It wasn’t a purge, a cleansing, or a revelation. It was just me. With my hands and my memories. Somehow, I managed the courage to take the next small step. A step into a world I didn’t choose. My home is changing shape. I like to think I am, too. And this slow, intentional releasing of things and energy is the closest thing to healing I’ve felt in a long time.

Thanks for reading –xxooC

rituals of letting go
rituals of letting go, our christmas tree from 2024
rituals of letting go our stockings from 2024
Grief, Thoughts and Notes, Uncategorized

When Home Isn’t a Place Anymore

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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

me hiking in colorado
Grief, Thoughts and Notes

When One Loss Reopens Another

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Layered grief is what happens when one loss sits on top of another—when old wounds are reopened by new pain, and the lines between them blur. It’s not just mourning one person. It’s mourning the parts of yourself that each loss took away.

Until this past week, I wasn’t familiar with the term. While some of the emotions and thoughts feel familiar, others are entirely new. Through therapy, I’ve come to understand what “layered grief” means, and now I can see it written all over my days. I knew pieces of Eric would resurface, but I wasn’t prepared for how deeply it would shake me.

Since Greg left, I’ve found myself struggling to look at photos of Eric. I almost can’t. It’s not because I don’t want to, or because the love or memories have faded. I believe my mind and body can only process one unbearable absence at a time. This new trauma has reactivated all the old pain, but it has also numbed parts of it. My system is overloaded. It feels like my grief has stacked itself in layers I can’t separate—one beneath the other, one heartbreak pressing into the next.

With Greg, the shock is still raw, still in motion. My body hasn’t yet caught up to the truth. But Eric’s loss was already scarred over—tender, but survivable—until now. Looking at him brings back the entire first collapse, and my heart can’t hold both at once. So, for now, I don’t look. Not because I’ve forgotten, but because I remember too much.

Reflection:
Layered grief isn’t just revisiting the past—it’s reliving it, all at once. The pain compounds, the memories intertwine, and healing becomes less about progress and more about endurance.

Mantra:
I am carrying more than one loss, and it’s okay if I can only hold one at a time.

Thanks for reading. –xxooC

Greg and Eric
Me with Greg and Eric

Grief, Thoughts and Notes

Existing in the Echo

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Living In the Space We Shared

It wasn’t something I could do with Eric. After he died, I packed up my things and had everything else boxed and stored. Then I took off on a journey that lasted more than two years. I didn’t have the strength to stay in the same space we shared. Every wall, every room, every item breathed his memory back into me, and I could barely breathe at all. Leaving was the only way I knew to survive.

But this time, I told myself I wouldn’t run. I wouldn’t make sudden decisions I might regret later. I promised myself I’d sit still and let this grief settle where it needed to, even if that meant letting it take root in the place Greg and I built together. Somehow, I have to live in our apartment. The life we shared lives in its corners — the art he made, the kitchen he claimed as his own, the furniture we picked out together. I walk through each room and feel him there, but it’s not the same as before. It’s quieter. The echo of us lingers, and I’m learning to exist within it.

Everything outside continues on just as before — the city hums, people hurry past, and life keeps moving as though nothing has changed. Only now, I feel the distinct separation of what life was before and what it is now, for me, Odin, and Freija. We lost Dad. His presence is still felt every day, only now it’s just me. I have to take care of myself and them, all alone, and that is extremely difficult sometimes. The apartment is now quieter and less lively. Joy is something we haven’t experienced much of since he left. Sometimes the silence is deafening, and I think about running, but I know that road and I’m not ready to take it yet.

For now, I exist here -in the echo, in the in-between. Somewhere between what was and what will be. There’s a strange comfort in the stillness, even when it hurts. Sometimes I catch a flicker of him in the corner of my eye, a small reminder that love doesn’t disappear, it just changes shape. The echo isn’t just the sound of what’s gone; it’s the pulse of what remains. Maybe this is what surviving looks like right now. Learning to breathe in the quiet, to coexist with absence, and to trust that one day, the echo won’t only sound like loss.

Me and greg existing in the echo
greg holding up freija with one hand existing in the echo
odin and freija in the hallways of the apt
my street corner
Grief, Thoughts and Notes, Uncategorized

Sedona Was Waiting

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I woke up with an unusual heaviness this morning, not really understanding why. Then I looked at the calendar and remembered — this week was supposed to be our vacation.

We were just about to ask for time off when he left. On his phone, I found searches for “day trips in and around Sedona.” “Things to do in Arizona” was there, too. Quite a few pages were there. I didn’t dare click on any of them. That’s a secret I’m not ready to mourn.

I think about what fun this adventure would have been — packing up the kids, the drive, the playlists, the snack stops. We both loved road trips. The sightseeing and detours, stopping to see something special — that was Greg’s utmost joy. His family used to take detours on their trips when he was young, and that childlike excitement still lived in him when he talked about it. “It breaks up the trip, it’s just a few minutes, and it may be something you never see again.” He was so right. We had a few before and even I got excited about them now.

And then there was always the arrival. My anxiety would kick in as soon as we got there, my fear of the unknown, but Greg was steady. He would unpack, get us settled, and then take me somewhere to unwind. Navigating the unknown was his specialty.

I miss that already — the release, the freedom, the newness. I yearn for that sense of discovery, to be out of the city and exploring somewhere new. To come home with stories and memories we’d made together. We haven’t had a trip since March.

Now I’m mourning something that will not only not happen, but will never happen again. My timeline has changed yet again — abruptly, unexpectedly — and I’m not quite sure how to navigate what comes next.

We had talked about so many trips. Every trip we planned together still lives somewhere — in the space between what could have been and what remains. Maybe that’s where love goes when the body can’t follow.

Mantra for today:

I can still carry the love, even when the map has changed.

He always had this uncanny way of stepping into my photo frame. Not knowing if it was intentional or not. I would just wait until he walked off and take another photo. I always kept the one of him in it 🙂

new orleans photo bomb sedona is waiting
pit stop on a road trip sedona is waiting
balloon glow in louisville photo bomb sedona is waiting
cemetery in macon sedona is waiting
indiana dunes taking photos
Grief, Thoughts and Notes

Their Absence, My Presence

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Some mornings arrive differently — heavy, familiar, or impossibly quiet. Grief has a way of circling back, reminding me of all that’s been lost and all that somehow still remains. Today was one of those mornings.

This morning I woke with a heaviness in my chest and a sad heart. I remembered the last time we danced in the kitchen. It wasn’t that long ago. I can still hear the song, see his eyes soften for a moment, and everything else just fell away. For a second, we were just two people moving together — no pain, no chaos, no words needed. Just connection.

Now, I sit here with his phone in my hands, the same way I used to hold Eric’s. It’s strange how grief repeats itself, how the rituals have resurfaced—the checking, the scrolling, the need to still tend to something of them. Messages and notifications come through like echoes from another life. Each one is a reminder that time is passing, that the world still moves, even when mine feels as though it has stopped.

Eventually, the service will end. The number that once lit up the screen will just… disappear. The notifications, the emails, all of it — sent into a void, meant for someone who isn’t here anymore. Then, I’ll just turn it off. It hurts in a way that’s hard to put words to. It feels like another goodbye, another layer of letting go.

It’s bitter and sweet, this space I’m in. I still live in the echo — the ghost of a life that once felt so full. And yet, life keeps happening around me. People laugh, cars go by, the sun rises. Their absence is still my reality, but so is my presence. And I don’t know what to do with that most days.

But maybe that’s the work right now — to just keep existing in the space between. To carry their memory without being swallowed by it. To remember that even in all this loss, I’m still here. Breathing, feeling, remembering, existing.

Their absence. My presence. Both are true. Both still matter.

Grief doesn’t fade on a schedule. It loops, it resurfaces, and it softens only when it’s ready. But in that looping, there’s a quiet kind of survival — the proof that we keep waking up, even when it hurts.

Today’s Mantra for Presence Through Loss
What is gone shapes what remains.
What remains is love.
What remains is breath.
What remains is me.
I am still here.

me holding odin's paw
Grief, Thoughts and Notes

Another Chapter Ends

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No sugar coating the reality of my existence. I’m living in the aftermath of another relationship cut off too soon. Back in 2020, my husband of 23 years left suddenly in the wee morning hours without any sound or notice. I discovered him the next morning on the floor of the downstairs bathroom. Our love story was over. One thing I knew for sure was that he did not want to leave. We had everything going right.
A few years later, I had a memorial for him. It took me a really long time to heal and reach a point where I could be around people and help them heal, too. I rekindled a friendship with one of my late husband’s childhood friends, who was also one of his very best friends. He loved this human and was enamored by his selflessness and freedom of soul, to wander the earth and try to do good. After a few months of connecting, we decided it would definitely be weird, but we should give ourselves a chance. We had an attraction and many commonalities, but also a lot of differences. It seemed the right thing to do. We soothed each other’s souls and navigated our grief together, building a powerful connection. And off we went on life’s journey. I really felt he was my twin flame in so many ways. We were so alike, only I had done the hard work and evolved; he had been thrashing about just trying to survive. I recognized this early and proceeded to try to give him every opportunity, everything he needed to heal. I failed.
Last Wednesday, for reasons I will never know, he took his life. We had plans, we were doing so well. In hindsight, I see the red flags I ignored. He had severe mental issues that he wouldn’t deal with. He was a man. He didn’t need pills; he didn’t need counseling. Like someone else I knew, he had severe brain trauma at an early age, and he knew his brain was messed up. He sought help, but got discouraged with the process. He self-medicated, which tore us apart. In the end, he’s no longer in pain, and those of us left are asking all the questions, wondering what more we could have done.
Suicide is so messy, and I never thought I would be here. He was my best friend, my confidant, the person I woke up with, went to bed with, and spent my days with. Now he is gone. I will never be the same.

Grief, Thoughts and Notes

Loving After Loss: Learning to Carry Love Forward

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dog sitting on the beach at sunset loving after loss

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.

a half finished puzzle

Thoughts and Notes

PTSD: Understanding the Daily Effects on the Nervous System

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Today, I want to talk about PTSD or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD is a mental health condition that affects millions of people worldwide. I was diagnosed shortly after finding my husband passed away. Many circumstances and traumatic events can cause PTSD. In this article, I want to focus on understanding its impact on the nervous system. This knowledge can illuminate the physical and emotional challenges faced by those living with the disorder. My symptoms have become worse this spring in anticipation of his fifth death anniversary. After some research, I want to share what I’ve learned. By diving in and learning the everyday effects PTSD has on the nervous system, we can better understand it. We can also support ourselves and others who are impacted by it.

The Basics of PTSD and the Nervous System

In short, PTSD arises after a person experiences or witnesses a traumatic event. Symptoms can include flashbacks, nightmares, severe anxiety, and uncontrollable thoughts about the event. The nervous system plays a vital role in how individuals process trauma, as it regulates emotions and responses.

The Stress Response and Hyperarousal

Recently, I’ve found myself jumping to sudden noises. I felt like I was always anxious, just waiting for something to “happen.” It turns out this is the nervous system’s fight-or-flight response. It’s often activated in PTSD, causing what’s called chronic hyperarousal. Individuals might feel constantly on edge, have difficulty sleeping, or be easily startled. This sustained state of alertness can significantly affect daily life, leading to exhaustion and increased stress.

Intrusive Thoughts and the Brain’s Reactions

PTSD can trigger the brain to relive traumatic experiences through intrusive thoughts and memories. Flashbacks can occur, making distinguishing between past and present threats challenging for the nervous system. Fortunately, I was able to find a therapist to administer EMDR for my flashbacks, but this isn’t always the case, depending on the type of trauma endured. Therefore, this reaction can lead to increased anxiety and difficulty concentrating.

Emotional Regulation Difficulties

With this recent relapse, I found myself crying more and experiencing bouts of sadness out of nowhere. I discovered that emotional regulation becomes a struggle for those with PTSD. The nervous system may find it hard to return to a calm state after a trigger. For me, I can experience severe symptoms for weeks. This can result in heightened emotions, such as anger or sadness, impacting relationships and day-to-day interactions.

Physical Symptoms of PTSD on the Nervous System

PTSD also manifests physically. The main thing I want to emphasis is that everyday triggers can complicate and overload the nervous system. Often, it can cause tension headaches, digestive issues, and muscle pain. These symptoms arise from the nervous system’s prolonged stress response, substantiating the disorder’s expansive effect beyond the mind.

Coping Strategies and Healing the Nervous System

It’s easy to get discouraged and think that living in a perpetual anxious state is going to be the norm, but it doesn’t have to be. Symptoms can be managed successfully. Managing PTSD requires strategies that soothe the nervous system. Techniques such as mindfulness, deep breathing exercises, and meditation can aid in calming the body. Various therapeutic approaches exist. They aim to rewire neurological responses and promote recovery.


Understanding PTSD’s impact on the nervous system helps with understanding the complexities of the disorder. Offering insights into its daily effects can provide a foundation for empathy and support in ourselves and those around us, whether we are suffering or know someone suffering. While the journey through PTSD is challenging, hope persists through awareness and effective coping strategies, paving the way for healing.

Thank you for reading. I love you all –xxooC

Grief, Thoughts and Notes

Life, Loss and Change

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Hi there…well, yeah, it’s been a minute. Change has pulled me in different directions, leading writing to take a backseat. However, journaling remains a constant. I’m on the verge of completing my companion workbook to “The Narcissistic Tangle.” A major life shift occurred recently for those unaware—I moved back to Chicago in September.

Reflecting on Change

The past six months have been a whirlwind of change. I’m standing on the brink of the five-year anniversary of my late husband’s death this June. This milestone marks an emotional moment of reflection. Five years have elapsed, and I’m confronted with mixed emotions. Some days, the reality of his absence sharply takes my breath away, while other times, I speak of his death as if it’s just another casual conversation.

Five years feels like a hugely significant milestone. Somehow, there’s an expectation to feel differently, yet my emotions remain complex and varied. Looking at who I am now, I often wonder if the person I was would recognize the person I’ve become. The trinkets and possessions I once held dear are now mere echoes of another life. Memories only I hold now.

Embracing the Present

I keep asking myself, “What direction do I want to take now?” I am acutely aware that I’m not getting any younger. While I’m able-bodied now, recent back issues remind me of life’s unpredictability. A fall last year introduced me to physical challenges I had never confronted before. It shifted my perspective on physical capabilities and future possibilities.

Life continues to provide blessings and opportunities. This is true despite some minor physical setbacks. A recent snowboarding trip to Wisconsin is evidence of this. Although it was a much-needed, beautiful, and exciting trip, the recovery was longer than expected. The whole experience was a stark reminder of how our bodies change, sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically.

Conclusion

This journey through time, change, and self-discovery continues to unfold. It’s teaching me about resilience and the new paths available when one chapter closes. I remain curious about the directions life will take me next. I am constantly confronted with how I will adapt to newfound circumstances while cherishing memories of past experiences and loved ones. Life’s ever-evolving nature is its own adventure, inviting us all to embrace change with courage and curiosity.

Thanks for reading. I love you all –xxooC