Grief, Grace and Growing

9/6/26

Dear Rob,

It’s Labor Day weekend.

One of the many challenges of grief is spending holidays without you.

Thankfully, I have our children.

But your absence is felt loud and clear.

Normally, you would be here grilling hamburgers and hot dogs. We would sit around the table. We would do some kind of family activity, even if the kids rolled their eyes and complained.

You were always so firm about family activities.

You wanted us together.

You wanted us to make memories.

And now I’m sitting here realizing how much I miss those ordinary holiday weekends with you.

This weekend, I found myself thinking about my childhood.

As a young girl, I was often alone.

My parents had to work A LOT. When they owned a liquor store, I hardly saw them because the hours were so long. And when my brother was responsible for watching me, he often left me home alone to go be with his friends.

So I learned early how to take care of myself.

I got ready for school on my own.

Made my own lunch.

Walked to school.

Did my homework by myself.

I rarely asked anyone for help.

I became independent because I had to.

I learned that if I needed something done, I would just do it myself.

Then I met you.

And somehow, you changed all of that.

You noticed how independent I was, but as we started spending more time together, you became someone I could trust.

And you never let me down. Ever.

I put my walls down. I began to trust you, and you never broke my trust. Ever.

You visited me during college. You showed up during the week. You showed up on weekends.

You just showed up.

After college, you proposed.

And somehow, those two young people became husband and wife and built an entire life together.

We were together every day for more than 20 years.

Twenty-plus years.

That’s still insane to me.

And now I’m here.

Back to being alone.

Last year, it was incredibly hard to be home without you.

The night you died, I left our house and was terrified to come back.

My body was in shock.

My mind was in shock.

My entire world had just changed.

And then there were people saying things they shouldn’t have said and failing to show up when we needed them most.

It was all too much.

I never imagined I would have to experience the hardest moment of my life without you.

You were the person I relied on.

And suddenly, I had to figure everything out without you.

As the months passed, I slowly began learning this new life.

A life as a widow.

A life as a single woman.

Growing up, I had my dad.

Then I had you.

You watched over me. You helped me navigate the hard things. You made decisions with me. You took the lead when something needed to be handled.

We were a team.

And now…

That’s me.

I’m the one making the decisions.

I’m the one taking charge.

I’m the one figuring things out.

I’m working full-time in leadership, making quick decisions throughout the day.

Some days, it’s a lot.

But I can hear you saying:

“You were born to lead.”

Maybe you were right.

Then I come home to my second job.

Parenting.

More decisions.

More responsibility.

Breaking up fights.

Setting boundaries.

Trying to be both the soft place and the firm parent.

And Rob…

You absolutely aced the disciplinary department.

You had no problem being the bad cop. You stood your ground. You made it clear the kids would respect you and me.

Now I’m trying to do that alone.

And some days, it doesn’t feel fair.

Because if you were here, some of this wouldn’t be mine to carry.

You were supposed to be here.

You were supposed to watch our kids become adults.

Embarrass them.

Give them advice they didn’t ask for.

Tell them to put their phones down.

Show up to their games.

Celebrate their accomplishments.

Walk our baby girl down the aisle.

You were supposed to be here for all of it.

A month before you died, I told you about my dream.

I wanted our kids to feel so safe with us that they would want to come home after they moved out.

Sunday dinners.

Family vacations.

Our future daughters-in-law and sons-in-law.

Grandchildren running through this house.

I wanted you to walk our baby girl down the aisle.

There was so much life ahead of us.

And then, at 44, I became a widow.

I never got the future I dreamed about with you.

And neither did you.

I’m trying every day to be the best mom I can be for our children.

And I’m trying to become the best version of myself, too.

When I look at pictures of myself from last year, I can see the pain.

The exhaustion.

The woman who was barely holding herself together.

I’ve worked hard to find her again.

Therapy.

Healing.

EMDR.

Rest.

Taking care of myself.

And a year later, I’m starting to see her.

The happy girl.

The girl you loved.

You always joked that I was so darn happy and nice.

You told me you had never met anyone like me.

And somehow, Rob…

your death didn’t steal that from me.

Neither did grief.

Neither did betrayal.

Neither did the people who hurt me when I needed them most.

I still choose kindness.

I still listen.

I still serve.

I still cheer people on.

I even forgave people who hurt me like hell.

And I think that’s when I realized…

I’m making progress.

I’m becoming someone new.

Maybe that’s what this next chapter is.

Rebirth.

A second chance at life.

I hate that I’m single at 45.

I hate that I went from being your wife for more than 20 years to being a widow.

I didn’t choose this.

Sometimes it feels like someone dropped me into a completely different life and handed me a blank piece of paper.

New routines.

New friendships.

New experiences.

A new identity.

And honestly?

It’s terrifying.

I don’t know if I want to do this life alone.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever be brave enough to do it with someone else.

Because, Rob…

I’m scared.

I’m scared I’ll never find someone who loves me the way you did.

You were patient.

You loved with your whole heart.

You made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

Will someone love all of me?

My flaws.

My strengths.

My children.

Will someone choose me every day?

Will someone make me feel safe?

I know there are good men out there.

But the thought of meeting a stranger, trusting someone again, and opening my heart feels terrifying.

What if they hurt me?

What if they don’t understand me?

What if they don’t love me the way you did?

What if I never find anyone?

And what if I do?

So right now, I’m trying not to live in a future I can’t predict.

I’m staying here.

Right now.

Our kids.

My health.

My peace.

My home.

My friendships.

My faith.

My happiness.

I’m learning to slow down.

To rest.

To be present.

And I’m finding joy again.

Real joy.

Sometimes it’s something as simple as cheese and crackers.

Sometimes it’s walking through Walmart without rushing.

Sometimes it’s sitting with the kids and laughing.

And there is a LOT of laughter in our house.

I love that.

Because even though your absence is still loud…

I’m filling this home with the things you would want for us.

Love.

Stability.

Laughter.

Memories.

You wouldn’t want me to stop living because you died.

You would want me to laugh.

You would want me to smile.

You would want me to live.

And maybe that’s the greatest gift I can give you now.

To live the life you never got to finish.

To raise our children with so much love that they never question their worth.

To make memories.

To travel.

To dance.

To say yes.

To step outside my comfort zone.

To stop waiting for the perfect time.

Because I finally understand something.

I didn’t get a second chance because I wanted one.

I got one because you died.

And I hate that.

I hate that the price of my second chance was losing you.

But I can’t waste it.

I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for the life we were supposed to have.

That life ended when you did.

And as painful as that is…

I am still here.

Our kids are still here.

And there is still a life waiting for us.

A different one.

A life I didn’t choose.

A life I never wanted.

But somehow, I’m learning to love it anyway.

I’m not ready to know what the rest of my life looks like.

I’m not ready to date.

I’m not ready to know who will be beside me ten years from now.

Maybe I don’t need to.

Maybe I just need to live today.

Because today is all I actually have.

And today…

I’m happy.

I’m laughing.

I’m loving our kids.

I’m taking care of myself.

I’m finding joy again.

I’m becoming.

And I’m doing it without you.

God, that still hurts to say.

Because I don’t want to do this without you.

I want you here.

I want you grilling hamburgers this weekend.

I want you sitting at our table.

I want your voice in this house.

Your laughter.

Your footsteps.

I want you.

But you’re not here.

So I’m going to keep going.

I’m going to keep learning.

Keep growing.

Keep loving.

Maybe someday I’ll open my heart again.

Maybe I won’t.

I don’t know.

But I refuse to let fear decide the rest of my life.

You taught me so many things, Rob.

And now I’m learning one more.

Life is short.

Too short.

So I’m going to live it.

Not because I miss you any less.

Not because I’m done grieving.

Not because I love you any less.

But because I love the life we created too much to stop living it.

I will carry you with me.

In our children.

In this house.

In our memories.

In the laughter.

In the quiet.

In every holiday.

In every milestone.

In every ordinary day.

Maybe rebirth isn’t becoming someone completely new.

Maybe it’s finding the woman you thought you lost…

and realizing she’s still there.

I’m still your munchkin.

I’m still your lady.

I’m still the happy girl you fell in love with.

And I’m still here.

I miss you.

I’m scared.

I’m sad.

I’m hopeful.

And for the first time in a very long time…

I’m excited to see what comes next.

I don’t know who will be there.

I don’t know what my life will look like.

But I know this:

I’m going to live.

I’m going to live for me.

For our kids.

For the life we built.

And I’m going to live in a way that makes you proud.

Because if you were standing here beside me, I know exactly what you’d tell me.

“Go live your life.”

So that’s what I’m going to do.

One day at a time.

One laugh at a time.

One little moment of joy at a time.

And maybe someday I’ll look back and realize…

I didn’t just survive losing you.

I learned how to live again.

Maybe that’s what being reborn really means.