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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

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

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
Journal Entry

Liminal Space

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Journal Entry — Nov 3rd, 2025

Our souls connected in a time and place when I was lost. I didn’t know what I wanted or where I was headed. I only knew that I couldn’t continue on the path I was on. Then Greg came into my life and showed me something different—something that felt stable, something that felt like home. Feelings I thought were lost and I would never be able to recapture.

Our time together was often tumultuous. There were times that were unbearable for both of us. But one truth was clear, we always sought comfort in one another. In the quiet discussions of the morning coffees, eating together, or just sitting, I now look back and I think he brought me through a liminal space—an in-between world. One I was stuck in but wasn’t meant to stay in forever. A space I had to pass through. Maybe he wasn’t meant to stay either.

There was such duality in him. The person I saw was so full of hope and life, yet he was also self-loathing and chaotic. He was joy and pain all at once. When things were still and quiet, I could see the gentleness in his heart. I think I fell in love with that version of him—the one who dreamed, who believed we could rebuild something beautiful out of all our brokenness.

Through him, I learned how to live again. All that I had learned before—especially through losing Eric—didn’t prepare me for saying goodbye to Greg in the way I had to. But even in the tragedy, there were gifts. He reminded me how to smile again. How to feel wanted. How to dance in the living room and not care who was watching. He showed me that life doesn’t always need to be so serious, and that sometimes, if we just let go, we can still find small miracles waiting for us in unexpected places.

I meant it when I told him he brought me back to life. He did. And while I wish, down to my broken core, that it hadn’t ended this way, I’m still here. I’m learning that the love, the laughter, and even the chaos all became part of my story. They live in me now, just like the parts of Eric that never left.

Maybe Greg’s purpose was to help me bridge the gap between who I was after losing Eric and who I’m still becoming. Maybe he and I met to help each other remember that love, no matter how fragile or fleeting, can still change us in the deepest of ways.

*Note: I’ve always been a huge proponent of affirmations. I now use them daily to ground, remind myself I’m still here, and to just get me through the pain.

Closing Reflection & Affirmation

I honor the love that was, the lessons that came, and the parts of myself I found through it all.
Both Eric and Greg touched my life in ways that shaped who I am today — and even though their absence feels unbearable at times, the love remains.
It lives in my heart, in the way I care for others, in the way I keep choosing to breathe, to move, to feel.

I am still here.
I am still learning.
And even in this space of grief, I am growing roots again.

Today, I will let myself rest in the truth that I have survived love and loss before, and I will again.
I carry their memory with gratitude, not a weight, but as a quiet light guiding me toward peace.

Thanks 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

Grief, Thoughts and Notes

Finding Your Path After Loss: Two Journeys, One Strength

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I’ve been asking myself the same question for some time, “Where do I go from here?” It’s also a question I never really have an answer for. I had a different yet familiar sort of conversation today about finding a path after loss. At work of course, and she was a recent widow. She was out and about with her support person, the friend who had been there with her, through it all.

They were giggling as she talked her friend into buying a costly handbag while she confessed her friend had just caused her to spend an obscene amount on new furniture. The whole situation was very reminiscent of a time not long ago in my past. Although my path led me to a different end, I found myself engulfed in her story and how this widow got to where she was, as she seemed extremely content and at peace. I had to know more.

Two Choices, A Shared Purpose

I was enthralled as this new conversation unfolded. Her trauma was sudden, just like mine although her’s was much newer. She was recently widowed and decided to keep her house. She felt it necessary to continue with the improvements she and her late husband had discussed doing. It was a commitment she was holding, and somehow, I admired that and felt it in my soul because I had contemplated that same dilemma.

When Eric died, I initially thought, “I’ll pay off the house, stay here, and continue this new life we had begun together. I’ll do all the things we wanted to do to the house.” Because ironically, we too had unfinished plans for our house. I was going to order new flooring we had just picked out three days before. That same day, we purchased a new tree for the front yard.

maple tree in front yard finding your path after loss

I did plant the tree we picked out for the front yard.

I learned this new widow had just replaced the flooring on her second floor. The furniture, well, she and her husband wanted to completely re-do the second floor. It all seemed so surreal, I was talking to myself in another universe, in another life—both equal and opposite endings. Ultimately, I chose a different path because, as destiny has it, we are different individuals in entirely different scenarios. Each small difference in each other is influencing and guiding our different paths forward. Both are valid, and both are healing in their own respective nature.

Admiring Strength In A Different Path

I admire this woman. I never asked her her name, and she never asked mine. We didn’t have “that” sort of connection, although we had a mutual admiration for each other and our different decisions. We had both found our paths after a very devastating loss. We understood that although we were faced with some of the very same choices, our paths ultimately led us in different directions in the wake of our loss. She has children and grandchildren, and her large house is still usable. Although I have a child and grandchildren, it is a great distance away and wouldn’t be of any benefit to me.

So I let it go to rebuild a different life. One of less. In a different city. One of more substance with a minimalistic nature. It doesn’t make mine any less, just different. And it suits me fine.

my street corner finding your path after loss

We are both validated in our loss and comforted in the reminders we keep. There is no right or wrong way to grieve; we have to decide what is best for each of us and try to move forward. That’s the thing about grief, sometimes it’s forward, sometimes it’s backward, sometimes it is neither, but we must move with time.

Universality Of Grief

This encounter isn’t the first I’ve had with other widows. I’ve written about them before, but this one was quite different. I learned so much from this conversation. In that moment, we were bonded in the shared experience of finding a path after loss. She was so positive and upbeat for being so fresh into her journey, and I admired that as well. We both face so many challenges, such as fear, loneliness, and uncertainty about our futures; however, we have support. Something not every survivor has, and that is the unfortunate fact.

In the end, we all have to use our intuition and make the decisions that are best for us.

Thanks for reading. –xxooC

give love macy's display
Grief, Thoughts and Notes

A Realization of Widowhood: Navigating the Reality of Being Single

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Realization of Widowhood…Setting IN

I. Am. Single. Yes, that’s what I said. It’s a hard realization of widowhood. It really doesn’t matter how long you were married before, the law only recognizes “until death do you part.” So now, whether you want to be or not, like it or not, you are single!

It’s hard to take in. It’s hard to process. But I have to, don’t I? Long before I was even ready to normalize anything, I was hit with the word “single.” And there you have it, folks, my life summed up in one single word for the government and any other authoritative entity that matters: “single.” The realization of widowhood.

I bring this up because I’ve confronted it multiple times in the last few weeks. For those of you new to my game, I’ve been a widow for a little over four years now, so nothing really surprises me. However, this did—quite a bit, actually.

I’ve spent most of my adult life being a wife. Not all at once, I do admit, but this last time was the one that counted, and I am counting a little over 23 years that I’ve been called Mrs…..

Being forced to be counted as single is a shock at first. Then it tries to settle in, only to be replaced by horror that I can no longer be called anything BUT “single” in the eyes of the law and government. I think there needs to be a change in this somewhere, but I can’t comprehend that right now.

The Weight of the Word “Single”

When you first hear it, it feels like a blow. “Single” seems to erase all the shared memories, the love, and the life built together. It feels reductive, minimizing years of companionship to a mere label. Adjusting to this new reality is daunting. The transition from being part of a “we” to just “me” is not only emotionally taxing but also socially and legally challenging.

Society’s Lens on Widowhood

Society often views widowhood through a sympathetic lens, but rarely does it understand the internal battle that comes with it. The term “single” doesn’t capture the complexity of the loss, the journey through grief, and the slow rebuilding of one’s life. Instead, it throws us into a category that feels foreign and uncomfortable.

The Journey of Acceptance

Coming to terms with this new status takes time. It’s a journey of acceptance, filled with moments of denial, anger, and eventually, understanding. Recognizing oneself as single after a significant loss is an essential step in healing. It doesn’t mean forgetting the past or diminishing the love that was shared. Instead, it’s about acknowledging the present and finding a path forward.

Navigating the New Normal

I really hate the term “the new normal.” I heard it a lot in the early days of widowhood, and every reminder of your single status feels like a fresh wound. From legal documents to social events, the constant labeling can be overwhelming. However, over time, these reminders can transform into affirmations of resilience and strength. They can become markers of progress, signifying the ability to move forward while still cherishing the past.

Finding Strength in Community

For those navigating similar paths, finding a community of support can make a significant difference. Sharing experiences, challenges, and victories with others who understand can provide comfort and encouragement. It’s through these connections that we can find solace and strength, knowing we are not alone in our journey.

Conclusion: Embracing the Future

Widowhood reshapes our identity in profound ways. Accepting the term “single” is part of this transformation. While it may never fully capture the depth of our experiences, it does signify a new chapter. Embracing this chapter means honoring the past while stepping into the future with hope and resilience. This may seem like a lot at first and if it is, be patient, you’ll get there. Remember: you are more than a label. You are a testament to enduring love and unyielding strength.

Thanks for reading. I love you all –xxooC

Destinations, Grief, On The Road

A Grief Journey Continued: Chasing Clarity

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The Anniversary of the Beginning

I must confess, my last post about facing the fourth anniversary of the start of my grief journey was a bit of a joke to me and not the haha kind. Although I wrote and rewrote it several times, no words seemed to convey what I was experiencing. I couldn’t quite wrap my thoughts around it. In an effort to just get something out, I pushed through the pain.

Yes, the time dilation was real. I found myself obsessing over photos again. With vivid detail, I could remember everything about a particular moment in time. However, as I kept getting pulled back into moments that happened five, seven, ten years, and more, living in the present seemed like the dream I would eventually wake up from. Only to be met in the present with the inevitable shock wave of grief and trauma over and over.

Believe it or not, that’s how the mind of a surviving spouse works, or at least mine does. Here’s the disclaimer: everyone grieves differently, and everyone processes trauma differently. Your experiences and grief journey may be completely different, and that is okay. Start your own blog. It’s very therapeutic. Click here for some inspiration. You can thank me later.

For reasons unknown, this year was particularly hard. I had the best support, and I’m becoming comfortable in this new life I’ve created. Yet, there is still this intense feeling of loss to contend with. I suppose it’s because the loss was sudden and unforeseen. It was thrust upon me, and I simply had to just deal with it and all of its messiness. Messiness like having to renew my truck plates and both of our names are still listed.

Embracing Clarity in Grief

Lately, I’ve been reminiscing about a couple of widows I met while traveling in Florida early on. Each told me their story of losing their husband. Both were sudden, like me, and both were quite similar, although they were hundreds of miles apart. Each one talked about how they got to a point where they just couldn’t go on in the environment they were in. So, they packed up what little they wanted to keep and moved. One to another part of the state and one from a completely different state. Far enough away to start a whole, brand new life. And with that, they seemed content, like they had no regrets at all.

I also find it interesting that one is living her life alone, completely content in her chosen isolation, while the other started a new career and remarried. They did what was best for their survival. That is exactly how I’m feeling; I have known it for some time. I must go. I must go to a place he and I weren’t and start a new life. I’ve done pretty well at reinventing myself; now I have to take it a little further and go and not look back.

The Vulnerability of Moving On

This year’s anniversary came with so many revelations. In grief, clarity will come. I have to caution you, though, and this is another article I plan to write, be very wary in the first few years. Pay particular attention to who you trust, and constantly doubt everyone’s motives. Intense grief makes one vulnerable. I had people take advantage of me in so many different ways in the first few years of my grief journey. They included friends, family, and trusted individuals. Those with a dishonest heart will see an opportunity, and you won’t know what’s coming because of the cloud of grief.

Solace by The Lake

So there it is. Another year has passed. I can’t say I have much to show for it except for the clarity and maybe a better grip on my life. I know more of what I want, don’t want, and will tolerate. Oh, the book—yeah, then there is that. Incidentally, I’m learning the business of promotion and advertising. I haven’t made a million dollars yet.

As for my anniversary, I spent my day on the beach, one of the best places on earth. Some of the following day was spent there too. Then, on Sunday, I watched one of the most amazing sunrises. It always brings me peace, and this year was no different.

Enjoy the photos 🙂

Thanks for reading. –xxooC

me at the dunes in indiana a grief journey
sunrise at the dunes a grief journey
sunrise at the dunes
a dune on the beach
the dunes beach facing chicago
the beach at the dunes a grief journey
Grief, Thoughts and Notes

Twenty-one Days: Cherishing Moments and Memories

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21 DAY REWIND

June 14th, 2020 was a Sunday. I will be stuck in this moment for the rest of my life whether I want to or not. Strange how trauma does that to the mind. As this anniversary is rapidly approaching, so goes my train of thought into a rewind. My brain seems to be repeating roughly the last twenty-one days every year now, as I will explain in greater detail. I started writing about this subject over a week ago. I had this great article ready to go, and then I reread it and realized how sanitized it was. It barely glossed over what I am feeling. Somehow, for some reason, as reality starts to set in more and more, the gut punches are coming more frequently. This. is. reality.

As I said, every year at this time has proven to be a rewind. Ever since the first anniversary in 2021, I have found myself instinctively counting down roughly the last twenty-one days. Week by week, day by day, moment by moment. All are crystal clear. I obsessively look at the calendar, too. I really don’t need to anymore; somehow, I just know, but I still look.

TWENTY-ONE DAYS OF LIFE

The impact of these memories extends beyond my own experience, affecting our daughter, her husband, and our grandsons. They, too, carry the weight of the bittersweet remembrances, feeling the absence of a beloved husband, father, and grandfather. The significance of these twenty-one days ripples through our family, intertwining our lives with a shared sense of joy, love, and loss. Our daughter was married exactly eight days before. Her last memories are of him walking her down to her future husband and all of us at their house celebrating. We drove home on Sunday.

We decided to rip up the carpet in the living room, and finally, after visiting what I think was every home store in the BloNo area, we picked out a hardwood. I was supposed to order it on Monday. Thursday, we did go to the nursery, which had been on the to-do list for a while. He picked out a beautiful fire maple tree for the front yard. It was to replace the existing maple, which was infested with spider mites. He didn’t live to see it planted the following Wednesday morning. These days will hold significance in my heart as they are so vivid, monumental, and emotionally charged. They mark the very last moments, the very last days, and the very last memories I have of my husband on this earth.

new fire maple in front yard
old maple in front yard

THE IMPORTANCE OF THESE DAYS

We were a few months into quarantine. Living in a cul-de-sac, the neighborhood had started meeting up in the street for drinks, music, and social interaction. The importance of the last twenty-one days lies in their inexplicable significance. Things were decisively different then. This was a different time. I remember these days so clearly as they were the last moments spent with my husband. While the reason behind the specific number of days when this rewind starts remains a mystery to me, this time and memories have imprinted themselves on my mind, and the intensity of these memories serves as a reminder of the deep impact they’ve had on not just my life but every life he touched. Those moments will stay with me forever.

So much happened in those last few weeks. Or again, maybe it’s just because I remember them so clearly. Sunsets were his thing. He loved them so much in our new house. He was always home for the good ones. The best, and his last was on the eighth. The bittersweet nature of these memories encapsulates a mix of joy and sorrow, each intertwined with the other.

sunset in normal, illinois twenty-one days
THE IMPACT OF THESE MEMORIES

I navigate a complex tapestry of emotions as I reflect on these twenty-one days. Cherishing and celebrating the love and memories, while acknowledging the pain of loss, holds a profound importance. As I also navigate the emotions tied to those twenty-one days each year and the years to come, I am reminded of the huge space my husband filled and now the huge hole that is left. It’s a time to honor the love we shared, as well as the lasting imprint my husband left on our hearts. While the weight of loss may linger, I must also find the strength to let it go, and I’m seeing this more clearly now than ever.

While the trauma will always be with me, I’m seeing I have to go on without him. As each year and each milestone keeps passing me by, I keep thinking it will get easier, but it doesn’t. I just learn something new about myself and figure out new ways to cope. But make no mistake, it never gets easier.

I rarely speak for my late husband, although I feel like I know him better than anyone. In these moments, I try to imagine what he would say to me. Above all, he was my cheerleader and always wanted to see me happy, so I let my heart be my guide. Somehow I always know he would approve.

Thanks for reading. I love you all. –xxooC

just me