Tag Archives: love

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

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

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