Grief, Grace and Growing

9/26/26

Dear Rob,

Lately, work has been exhausting.

It’s been so busy and so stressful that sometimes I come home, sit on the couch, and stare at the wall.

I don’t even have the energy to move.

Sometimes I don’t have the energy to cook.

And the strange thing is, I actually love being busy. I love my job. I love projects. I love having a list and checking things off one by one. I’m a doer.

But what I hate is coming home to all of it without you.

I hate that you’re not here to help me carry the stress.

I hate that I can’t walk through the door and tell you about my day.

I hate that you can’t pull me into your arms when I’m overwhelmed.

I hate that you can’t listen to me complain, say, “I’m sorry,” and then just hug me.

That’s the part of grief nobody really prepares you for.

It’s not just missing someone.

It’s missing the person who made the hard days easier.

The person you automatically reached for.

The person who knew when you needed a hug before you ever asked.

Yesterday, I went to dinner with a friend.

I didn’t hesitate. I went.

And for a few hours, I wasn’t thinking about work or responsibilities or everything waiting for me at home.

I had a perfect margarita.

I laughed.

Really laughed.

My friend and I talked about everything and nothing. We laughed so hard tears ran down our faces. We even ended up laughing in the parking lot until we were practically on the ground.

For a few hours, I felt free.

And I realized how badly I needed that.

I needed to laugh without feeling guilty.

I needed to enjoy myself without feeling like I was betraying my grief.

But then I came home.

I turned on a movie.

And there he was.

Not really you.

But enough.

One of the characters reminded me of you.

The way he looked at her.

The way he moved.

The way he touched her gently to get her attention.

And suddenly, I wasn’t watching a movie anymore.

I was remembering you.

A month before you died, we were lying on our bed after work.

I told you how much I loved the way you loved me.

How you loved me so well.

How you always fought for me.

For us.

Even when we fought, you made it clear that you weren’t going anywhere.

You weren’t leaving.

And now I realize how much safety was hidden inside those words.

I miss your voice.

But I also miss your hands.

I miss the way you’d touch my face.

The way you loved holding my hand.

The back hugs.

And, yes, even the way you’d smack my butt every time you walked by.

You were so affectionate with me.

You loved touching me.

And I never had to think about it.

I never had to wonder if someone loved my body.

I knew.

I knew because you showed me.

So while I was watching that movie, all of those memories came rushing back.

And without warning, I started sobbing.

Not crying.

Sobbing.

The kind where your chest hurts because your body remembers something your mind can’t fix.

And that’s when I realized something about grief.

Memories don’t always feel like memories.

Sometimes they feel like being dropped back into a life that no longer exists.

For a few seconds, I can feel your hand.

I can remember your touch.

I can hear your voice.

I can almost feel what it was like to be loved by you.

And then reality comes crashing back.

You’re not here.

And there is nothing I can do about it.

That’s the part that breaks me.

Lately, you’ve been appearing in my dreams.

Quietly.

You’re usually behind me.

Or watching me from far away.

You don’t say much.

But recently, you handed me a note.

It said:

“It’s okay to cry. Stop being so strong.”

And I cried in my sleep.

I woke up with tears on my face.

And then I thought about it all day.

Maybe that’s what I needed to hear.

Because I have spent so much time trying to be strong.

Strong for the kids.

Strong for work.

Strong for everyone.

But maybe I’m tired of being strong.

Maybe I’m allowed to admit that this hurts.

The note also said,

“Rest as much as you can. And please eat.”

That made me mad and sad. Do you want to know why?

When you were here, I felt so sad that falling asleep was never a problem. You teased me all the time about my ‘sleeping issue’. The fact that no matter where I go, I fall asleep instantly. Yet after you died, I could hardly sleep for months.

Or when you were here, I never thought about eating. Why? Because you made sure I was taken care of. You wanted your family to eat healthy meals, so you cooked for us every single day. And now I don’t have that. Now, I am grieving, working full time, a bus driver for the kids, and trying to figure out this new life without you. So my health is last.

Tonight, Anders, Vivian, and I went to church.

Anders actually went. You know how significant that is.

He hasn’t wanted to go since you died.

We used to go together as a family.

It wasn’t an option.

When you said it was time to go, we went.

I miss those chaotic Sunday mornings.

The sighs.

The eye rolls from the boys.

The rushing around.

All of it.

I would give almost anything to have one of those ordinary mornings back.

Pastor Enter talked about how God gave us our bodies and how easily we forget to take care of them.

As I listened, I thought about your note.

And I thought about my body.

My relationship with it.

My grief.

Everything has changed.

Growing up, I never struggled much with my weight.

My harshest critic was always my mother.

My dad was different.

He used to tell me that God gave me my body, and we only get one.

Take care of it.

But don’t deprive yourself of the things you love. Because in my dad’s eyes, I was always beautiful no matter what. He said it and still says it. 

You always laughed when I told you that.

You loved how easygoing my dad was.

You loved how much my father loves me. 

And then, sitting in church, another realization hit me.

For more than twenty years, you never made me ashamed of my body.

Not once.

You loved me.

All of me.

You made me feel beautiful.

You made me feel wanted.

You made me feel safe.

And now, at 45, I have to think about something I never thought I’d have to think about.

Someday, there may be another man.

Someday, I may have to let someone touch me.

Trust someone.

Let someone see me.

Let someone love me.

And that thought makes me incredibly sad.

Because I never had to wonder if you would accept me.

I knew.

So now I find myself asking questions I never wanted to ask.

Will I ever find someone who honors my body the way you did?

Will I ever find someone who loves every part of me the way you did?

Will I ever feel that safe again?

I hate that I have to wonder.

I hate that your death forced these questions into my life.

If we had divorced, maybe this would feel different.

But we’re not divorced.

You’re gone.

And that’s such a different kind of alone.

I didn’t choose this.

I didn’t decide I wanted to start over.

Life decided for me.

And now, someday, I’m supposed to date.

I’m supposed to trust someone again.

I’m supposed to let someone get close.

And honestly, Rob…

I’m scared, but I’m a pro at facing my fears.

As I sat at church, I realized now is the time to start nourishing my body. Not make excuses. One day at a time and the most important thing to remember, God loves me no matter what my body looks like. But the way you honored my body, is how God wanted you to. And now that you are gone, I need to start honoring and nourishing my body for me and for God.

After church, Pastor Enter introduced Anders to the pianist, who is studying to become a dentist at the University of Minnesota.

They talked about college.

Applications.

The future.

And later, Pastor Enter told me how far ahead Anders is.

How much he has already planned.

And I wanted to cry again.

Not because I was sad.

Because I was grateful.

So incredibly grateful.

I’m grateful Anders has someone like Pastor Enter in his life.

Someone who listens to him.

Someone who validates him.

Someone who guides him.

Someone who sees him.

And standing there, watching our son talk about his future, I realized something else.

You aren’t here to see any of this.

You aren’t here to hear about his plans.

You aren’t here to watch him grow.

You aren’t here to sit beside me in church.

You aren’t here to come home after a long day.

You aren’t here to hold my hand.

You aren’t here to hug me.

And yet somehow, you’re still woven into everything.

Into our children.

Into our memories.

Into my dreams.

Into the way I love.

Into the woman I am now.

And maybe that’s what grief really is.

It’s not simply learning to live without someone.

It’s learning how to live with their absence everywhere.

In the empty space beside you.

In the quiet house.

In the Sunday mornings.

In the movies.

In the songs.

In the way someone touches your face.

In a back hug you suddenly remember.

In a joke that only they would understand.

In a child who looks at you and reminds you of them.

In a dream where, for just a moment, they’re still alive.

And then you wake up.

And they’re not.

That’s the gut punch.

That’s grief.

You don’t just lose the person.

You lose the life you thought you were going to have with them.

And then, somehow, you’re expected to build another life while still carrying the old one inside your heart.

I don’t know how to do that yet.

I’m still learning.

But tonight, I’m going to try to rest.

I’m going to try to eat.

I’m going to try to stop being so strong all the time.

Because maybe you’re right.

Maybe it’s okay to cry.

Maybe I don’t have to hold everything together every second.

Maybe I can admit that I miss you.

That I am lonely.

That I’m scared.

That I don’t know what comes next.

And maybe, someday, I’ll be okay with that uncertainty.

But tonight?

I just wish you were here.

I would give anything for one more back hug.

One more hand to hold.

One more touch on my face.

One more ordinary Sunday morning.

One more exhausting day where I could come home, collapse beside you, tell you everything that happened…

and hear you say,

“I’m sorry.”

And then feel your arms around me.

I miss you, Rob.

More than words can ever explain.

And I’m beginning to understand that grief isn’t something I finish.

It’s something I learn to carry.

Some days I carry it quietly.

Some days it knocks me to the ground.

And some days, a stupid movie or a familiar touch reminds me that the deepest pain in my life came from having something incredibly beautiful to lose.

You loved me so well.

And I think that’s why losing you hurts so much.