Tag Archives: peace

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, 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
Journal Entry

The Hole That Was You

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Journal Entry

I hate that you gave up on life.

It hurts so badly, all the time.

There are these tiny moments — little flickers — where I forget that you’re really gone. Gone gone.

And in those brief moments, I feel almost whole again, like the world hasn’t shattered and left me standing in the ruins…again.

I know you didn’t mean to knock the wind out of me a second time, but you did.

You didn’t mean to leave me with all of this.

I’m sitting here in the hole that was you —

now responsible for everything you left, and everything I already had:

Odin, Freija, this apartment, this life that keeps moving forward without your love, without your presence, without your support.

The train still goes by as if nothing has changed.

But everything has.

We’ve gone from four souls to three in this “home” we created, and all of us are trying to adjust in our own ways. Odin curls into me because he feels the shift. Freija pretends the world is steady. And I… I’m just trying to survive inside a reality I never wanted.

Just know that we loved you. We still love you and we still look for you.

And we will keep loving you long after you’re gone.

We’ll miss the laughter, the dancing, the playfulnest, the lazy days spent with all of us snuggled on the bed, the little adventures, the quiet, meaningful mornings, the feeling of belonging to someone who felt like home.

We’ll miss it all for the rest of our days.

Reflection

Grief keeps teaching me that love doesn’t end just because a life does. The pain I feel isn’t proof that something is wrong with me — it’s proof that something mattered. That he mattered. That the life we built, the routines we shared, the future we dreamed of, all had weight and meaning.

In these moments of writing, I’m learning to let myself speak without polishing, without shrinking the truth. I’m learning that mourning isn’t linear, dignified, or clean. It’s jagged and contradictory. It’s loving someone and resenting them in the same breath. Missing the moments that made life feel soft, while trying to survive the ones that broke me open.

I’m beginning to see that healing isn’t about replacing what I’ve lost — it’s about creating space inside myself to carry it. A quieter space, maybe. A gentler one. A space where anger and love can coexist, where memory doesn’t have to be tidy to be sacred.

And even in the ache, even in the absence, there is still some part of me whispering: I’m still here.

That has to be enough for today.

Thanks for reading –xxooC

Journal Entry

The Part That Stayed

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Journal Entry

I have so much anger and rage. I hate you for making me go through this again. All you had to do was come home or call me to pick you up. That was it. What was so bad that you had to leave me like this?

I love you, and now I hate you. The trauma bond is the worst part because not only am I grieving you being gone — because you were my morning, my afternoon, and my sunset — but I’m grieving the emotional tether we shared when things were bad. Even then, we still had each other. Now I have nothing.

I was so good without you in the aftermath of the first loss. You helped me believe again, and then you accused me of making you dependent on me. But we were dependent on each other — we knew that, we acknowledged it, and we accepted it. And then you left me.

I learned so much about him because of you. You showed me around your hometown and filled in the pieces of his story — the childhood memories, the places, the things he couldn’t tell me himself. Through you, I felt closer to him. You were my comfort in the painful absence of what was my former life. You filled in the gaps I couldn’t fill on my own — the ones I didn’t even know I still needed. And now, all of that is gone too. There is no more. I grieve it all, every bit of it. All at once, it’s all-consuming.

Reflection:

Love can be both the wound and the salve — and in that contradiction, I am learning to breathe again. Some pieces of love remain, even when the person doesn’t.

Mantra:

I am still here.

I am still Love.

I am still Becoming.

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

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

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