Grief, Grace and Growing

Dear Rob,

Today, I celebrated my one-year work anniversary.

Mixed emotions.

First, it’s Tuesday, and I’m already exhausted. I honestly don’t even know what day it is. My lead worker is on vacation, so I’m doing double the work on top of supervising. Today was a busy day—one meeting after another, followed by 1:1s with my team. I received messages congratulating me on my work anniversary, and one of my sweet coworkers even bought me my favorite boba drink, a Cloud Strawberry. It was such a nice surprise to return from my meetings and find a special treat waiting for me.

I had every intention of leaving on time and celebrating my milestone with the kids.

But without my lead worker, I was responsible for a task that took a little longer than I expected. And tomorrow is one of my coworker’s birthdays, so I stayed late to decorate.

I left at 6:30 p.m.

Two hours past my normal time.

I know exactly what you would have said if you were here.

“Come home.”

When the boys were little and Vivian wasn’t born yet, I was blessed to work one day during the week and on the weekends. I wanted to be home with the kids. Although working the night shift was brutal on my body and mind, being home with the kids meant everything to me. The boys still talk about all the adventures we went on and all the time we spent with their cousins.

Once Charlie started preschool, I decided to return to full-time work. I became an administrative manager at FamilyMeans.

You were so happy for me. You were so proud.

You felt I was perfect for the position. You loved that I loved to lead. I liked taking charge. I liked getting things done. You admired my drive and motivation.

But what you didn’t like was that I was a workaholic.

I took on too much. I stressed myself out. I stayed late. I worked weekends. I gave everything I had to my job, sometimes leaving very little of myself for anything else.

One time, we had a big fight about it.

You wanted me to manage my time better. You wanted me to focus more on the kids and our family.

I remember feeling so overwhelmed and upset when you said that to me. I remember telling you, “I’m overwhelmed being a full-time mom and a full-time manager.”

And I remember shouting:

“I can’t do it all, Robert!”

Then you suggested that you stay home and I work.

And I will admit, when it came to housework, you nailed it.

Your OCD kicked in, and our house always looked spotless. I miss that so much.

You cooked. You cleaned. You even helped with the laundry.

“You would make a wonderful housewife,” I joked with you.

Who would have thought that in the fall of 2025, I would have to become the full-time mom and supervisor without you?

A week before you passed away, I sent you a text message. I thanked you for being the best husband. For being my partner.

You responded:

“You don’t need to thank me. We are a team.”

I responded:

“I know I don’t have to say thank you, but I want you to know that I am grateful to you. Most of my friends complain that their husbands don’t cook or clean, but mine does both.”

You blushed.

God, I miss that.

Now I don’t have a partner to help me with the housework.

I don’t have a partner I can turn to and say, “I need help,” knowing that help would come.

It’s just me.

Me getting two kids to their activities.

Me sitting alone at those activities without you.

Me carrying the mental load.

Me figuring it all out.

And honestly?

It’s a real shitty feeling.

But I did it, Robert.

Somehow, in the middle of death, grief, and loss, I chased my dream job.

I walked into those two interviews carrying a heart that was shattered, a life that had been turned upside down, and a future I never imagined having to navigate without you.

And I gave it everything I had.

When I got the job offer, I sobbed like a baby.

“I did it,” I remember saying out loud.

“I got my dream job. I can support my babies.”

I felt proud.

I am proud of myself.

This year has been one of the hardest years of my career.

There have been so many leadership changes. So many personalities to manage. So many procedures to memorize. So many projects to juggle. Some days, my head is spinning.

Other days, I just need to get away and breathe.

Normally, I would come home and cry to you.

I would tell you about my day. I would vent about what happened. I would talk through my frustrations. You would listen. You would help me put things into perspective.

You were my safe place.

Now I’m learning how to decompress and regulate my own emotions.

My therapist told me to place and process all my emotions in my “Jeaney’s garbage container.”

It sounds simple.

It isn’t.

Because some emotions don’t fit neatly into a garbage container.

Some grief stays.

Some days, it sits quietly beside me.

Some days, it knocks the wind out of me.

And some days, like today, I reach a milestone and the first person I want to tell is the person who isn’t here to hear it.

That’s the hardest part.

I wish so much that you were here to see my career growth.

I wish you could see how much I’ve matured as a leader.

I wish you could see the decisions I make, the people I support, the challenges I face, and the things I’ve accomplished.

I wish you could see the woman I’ve become.

But most of all, I wish you were here to celebrate this milestone with me.

I wish I could walk through the door tonight, exhausted from a long day, and hear you say:

“I’m proud of you.”

Because I know you would be.

You always were.

So today, on my one-year work anniversary, I’m celebrating.

Not because this year was easy.

It wasn’t.

I’m celebrating because I survived a year I never thought I would have to live.

I kept going through grief.

I kept going through loss.

I kept showing up for our babies.

I kept showing up for myself.

And somehow, through all the heartbreak, I built a new chapter.

A chapter I never asked for.

A chapter I never wanted.

But a chapter I am learning to live.

I wish you were here, Rob.

I wish more than anything that you could see me.

But I hope, wherever you are, you know this:

I’m doing it.

Just like you told me—

we are a team.

And even though I can’t see you, I’m carrying you with me.

Every single day.

I love you.

And I miss you more than words will ever be able to say.

One year down.

Forever to go.