Grief, Grace and Growing

9/10/26

Dear Rob,

Today was another day where hanging out and having conversations with people didn’t feel so hard.

Conversations flowed naturally. I laughed. I listened. I talked about the boys, work, life, and even you.

And I didn’t cry.

I don’t cry when someone mentions you anymore. I don’t cry when I say the words, “I’m a widow.”

Those words used to feel like they were made of bricks.

Now they’re simply part of my story.

Today, the conversation turned to when I’m going to get married.

I had to remind everyone that I need to find a man before I get married.

We all laughed.

Apparently, this is a topic that has become a recurring segment in the lives of the people around me. 😂

Last year, that conversation probably would have bothered me. I would have felt uncomfortable, maybe even a little angry. But today, I wasn’t really fazed by it.

People want to know.

I get it.

And honestly, I think it’s kind of sweet that people care enough to wonder about my future.

After you died, though, the thought of being with someone else terrified me.

The thought of getting to know someone all over again.

Dating.

Talking.

Getting to know someone’s family.

Figuring out their quirks.

Letting them figure out mine.

It all sounded exhausting.

It still kind of does.

I mean, we were together for twenty-six years. I don’t even understand the dating world anymore.

The stories I’ve heard?

OMG.

Maybe I’m better off staying home.

Seriously.

I sometimes joke that I might just be alone forever and that I should probably start accepting it now.

But underneath the joke was a very real fear.

In the beginning, the thought of being a single woman again made me angry.

I was forty-five.

Forty-five.

And suddenly I was supposed to restart a part of my life I thought I had already finished.

You were supposed to be my forever.

We were supposed to grow old together.

You were supposed to annoy me when we were eighty.

I was supposed to complain about you leaving your socks somewhere ridiculous.

We were supposed to sit together at Sunday dinners and watch our boys become fathers. Our daughter become a mother to six kids- lol! 

That was the plan.

And then you left too soon.

So when people started talking about me finding someone else, a part of me wanted to scream,

“Are you kidding me? I already had my person.”

I didn’t want another person.

I wanted you.

But today, my coworkers asked me about dating.

Am I ready?

What am I afraid of?

What am I looking for?

I honestly hoped my silence would make the conversation awkward enough for everyone to change the subject.

It didn’t.

Because apparently my work family has decided that my love life is now a group project.

And they care.

They really care.

They want me to be happy again.

They want me to have a partner.

They want me to have someone to love and someone who loves me.

And the truth is…

I do too.

That sentence used to make me feel guilty.

Saying that I wanted love again somehow felt like I was betraying you.

Like wanting another relationship meant I was replacing you.

But you made your feelings about this very clear a long time ago.

You told me that if you were the first one to go, you never wanted me to be alone forever.

You told me I was too kind and had too big of a heart not to be loved again.

And then you made me promise you two things.

First, you told me never to change my core values. You didn’t want me dating around just to avoid being alone. You wanted me to wait for the right person.

And second, you told me to find someone who would treat me better than you.

Your exact words.

“Find someone who will treat you better than me.”

I still laugh at that one.

Because, really, Robert?

You wanted me to find someone better than you?

That’s a pretty tall order.

But I remember.

And today, when my work family told me that I deserve the world, I actually let their words sink in.

I didn’t argue.

I didn’t brush them off.

I didn’t say, “Oh, I don’t know.”

I just listened.

And I could feel how much love was behind their words.

They are protective of me in a way that reminds me of you.

They want to make sure no one comes along and hurts me.

They have already decided dating apps are absolutely not happening.

Apparently, they have a better plan.

They are going to find someone in my universe.

Someone they know.

Someone my friends know.

Someone who has somehow passed through the extensive background-check process that is my work family.

Honestly, I’m okay with that.

Because if I’m ever going to open my heart again, I want it to feel safe.

I’m not in a hurry.

I don’t need someone just because I’m lonely.

I don’t need someone to fill the space you left.

Nobody could.

I want someone who adds to the life I have built.

Someone who understands that I come with history.

With grief.

With two boys and a girl.

With memories.

With a whole lot of love.

So when they asked me what I’m looking for, I started with one or two things.

And then somehow the list grew.

Of course it did.

Apparently, I have standards now.

You should be proud. 😂

First, I want a godly man.

Someone whose faith matters to him.

Someone who understands that God needs to be at the center of our lives.

And honestly, if I could meet someone within my universe—someone my friends know, someone I have some connection to already—I think I would feel more comfortable.

I’m not in a hurry.

But if I’m introduced to someone and we click?

I’m willing to give love a second chance.

Because that is what you would want me to do.

And after this past year, after everything I have walked through, I finally believe something I couldn’t believe before:

I deserve another chance at love.

Not because I’m replacing you.

Not because I’m done loving you.

But because I’m still alive.

And my heart is still capable of loving.

Second, I want a man who will love our babies like they are his own.

That one is non-negotiable.

He doesn’t have to replace you.

He never could.

But he has to love them.

He has to understand that loving me means loving the people who matter most to me.

Third, I want a man who loves kids and family.

I want Sunday dinners.

I want family vacations.

I want holidays that are loud and chaotic.

I want traveling the world together.

I want someone who will sit around the table and laugh with us.

Someone who will watch the grandbabies with me someday and say, “How did we get this old?”

I want a family life.

Not because I’m trying to recreate what we had.

But because I still love what family means.

Fourth, I want someone confident.

But not cocky.

There’s a difference.

I need a man who knows who he is without needing to prove it every five minutes.

And fifth, I want a man who values commitment.

Someone who understands that love isn’t just butterflies and chemistry.

It’s showing up.

It’s patience.

It’s choosing each other when life gets hard.

It’s communicating.

It’s forgiveness.

It’s building something together.

It’s staying.

And maybe that’s what scares me the most.

Because I know what it feels like to build a life with someone.

I know what it feels like to love someone deeply.

And I know what it feels like to lose them.

So yes, I’m scared.

I’m scared of getting attached.

I’m scared of trusting someone.

I’m scared of opening my heart and discovering that I made a terrible mistake.

I’m scared of comparing someone to you.

I’m scared of my boys getting attached.

I’m scared of bringing someone into our world and then having to explain another loss if it doesn’t work out.

But I’m also starting to realize that fear cannot be the thing that decides the rest of my life.

For a long time, I thought healing meant becoming okay with being alone.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe healing means becoming okay with the possibility of love again.

Maybe it means being able to say,

“I loved Robert deeply. I still love Robert. And I’m allowed to love someone else someday, too.”

Those things can exist together.

I can miss you and still laugh.

I can love you and still make room for someone new.

I can carry our memories and still create new ones.

And maybe, someday, I can sit beside someone at a Sunday dinner, watch our boys laughing across the table, and feel something I haven’t allowed myself to imagine in a very long time.

Peace.

Not because I forgot you.

Not because someone replaced you.

But because I finally understood that my life didn’t end when yours did.

It changed.

And I’m still here.

My heart is still here.

And maybe—just maybe—it is still capable of being loved.

So, Robert, I’m finally here for it.

Not desperately.

Not recklessly.

Not because I need someone to save me.

But because I’m beginning to understand that I deserve to be loved again.

I’m going to trust God with the rest.

If there is someone out there for me, I pray he finds his way into my universe.

And when he does, I hope I’m brave enough to open the door.

Just a little.

Because apparently, after twenty-six years of marriage, I’m going to have to figure out dating again.

God help me.

You better not be up there laughing at this.

Because you knew me.

You knew how much I wanted to be loved.

And you also knew how much I deserved it.

So I’ll try.

I’ll keep healing.

I’ll keep living.

And maybe someday, I’ll let someone love me again.

I think you’d be okay with that.

Actually…

I think you’d insist on it.

And I know you would be proud that through all the deep pain and trauma, I chose to heal, take my time and open up my heart again.