Grief, Grace and Growing

10/14/26

Dear Rob,

Although sports have ended for both Vivian and Charlie, life has been busy. Time keeps flying by, and somehow, we keep moving forward, even on the days when I wish time would stand still long enough for you to catch up on everything you’ve missed.

Earlier this week, we celebrated Charlie’s birthday as a family of four.

Birthdays were never your thing. You never liked being the center of attention. But for me, birthdays have always been about making sure the people I love feel seen, celebrated, and loved. And even though you weren’t here, I did my best to make our Charlie Bear feel special.

We started celebrating on Sunday with Raising Cane’s. I ordered the tailgating pack, thinking we would have enough chicken left over for Monday’s dinner. But silly me.

Before you died, you worried that Charlie wasn’t eating enough. He was such a picky eater, and you were always concerned about how little he ate.

Well, Rob, our Charlie Bear is still a picky eater, but that boy can EAT. Between both boys, twenty-five chicken tenders later, there were no leftovers for Monday.

I laughed at that, but there was sadness in it, too.

Because Charlie is growing. Growing so fast. And I find myself grieving the things that should be ordinary milestones but have become reminders of your absence. The things you should be here to see. The little changes you should notice. The moments you should be part of.

You should be here, Robert.

You should be here to watch our children grow. To see who they are becoming. To laugh at the little things I tell you about. To witness the life we built together continuing to unfold.

And yet, here I am, celebrating our son’s birthday, trying to make beautiful memories while carrying the unbearable knowledge that one of the people who should be here to share them is gone.

That is the cruelest part of grief. Life keeps giving us reasons to celebrate, but the person we want to celebrate with is no longer here.

Besides Charlie’s birthday, work has kept me busy.

Last year was about survival. Nothing more, nothing less. I was surviving your death, trying to be present for our children, and doing my best to keep up at work while carrying a weight that no one could fully see.

The pressure of being the sole provider is intense. There are no days off from being a mom. No stepping away from the responsibilities. No putting life on hold until my heart feels whole again.

The bills still need to be paid. The children still need their mom. Work still needs me to show up.

And so I did.

Because you know me. I am a hard worker. I take my responsibilities seriously. When I give something my time and energy, I give 200 percent. That has always been who I am.

Even in the deepest part of my grief, I tried not to let it consume my work. I never wanted anyone to use my loss against me or question my ability to do my job. I focused on my team because I had been hired to build rapport, establish trust, and create a stronger foundation.

Within three months, I had accomplished that. I met with my team weekly. I worked on setting boundaries, establishing structure, and building relationships.

And while doing all of that, I went through four managers. I am now on my fifth supervisor. Crazy, right?

I coordinated and managed several major projects, too. I gave so much of myself to my work that it was no surprise I came home completely exhausted.

Looking back, I realize how much I was carrying. I was grieving the love of my life while trying to prove that I could still be everything everyone needed me to be.

I was hurting, but I kept showing up.

I was exhausted, but I kept going.

I was broken in ways people could not see, but I still had responsibilities to fulfill.

Last year, I was simply trying to survive a life I never imagined I would have to live without you.

At the beginning of this year, I made a promise to myself: I would be more intentional about my role at work. I have so much on my plate, but I won’t complain. I genuinely love what I do.

And if you were here, I know you would be proud of me.

Proud that I have grown into a strong leader. Proud that I continue to show up for my team. Proud that, despite the heaviness of my grief, I kept going even when I wasn’t sure how I would make it through another day.

I wish you could see me now.

Not because I need you to validate my accomplishments, but because you were the person I always wanted to share them with. You knew how hard I worked. You knew the pressure I put on myself. You knew the heart behind everything I did.

There is still a part of me that wants to come home and tell you about my day. To share the good news, complain about the frustrating things, and hear your thoughts.

I don’t think that part of me will ever completely go away.

And maybe it doesn’t have to.

If you were here, you would also appreciate that I now work from home one day a week. I could work remotely more often, but I choose to do it just one day because my team cannot. They handle so much of our customer service work and need to be on-site.

One day a week, though, I get to slow down a little. And one of the things I have come to appreciate about my workplace is that mental health is taken seriously.

Today, I used that time for therapy.

As I sat on my therapist’s couch, I realized something that stopped me in my tracks.

I have been in therapy for a year and four months.

A year and four months of showing up. Of opening wounds, I would rather have left untouched. Of talking about things that hurt too much to say out loud. Of confronting memories, I desperately wanted to escape.

A year and four months of choosing to heal, even when healing was exhausting.

I remembered your dad asking me last year when I would be done with therapy. Your dad has tried therapy, and your mom doesn’t believe she needs it. You never really believed in therapy, either. You didn’t want to spend the money, and you didn’t want to relive your childhood.

If you were here, Rob, I would tell you that therapy is worth every penny. Every minute. Every tear.

Because therapy has given me something I desperately needed: the chance to understand my pain instead of allowing it to control my life.

Your death changed the way I see almost everything. Family. Friendships. Relationships. Life itself.

I have stronger boundaries now. I am more intentional about who I allow into my life, who I trust, and who I share the most vulnerable parts of my story with.

You always told me to be selective. To guard my heart. You were protective of me in a way that made me feel safe. When someone hurt me, you felt that pain, too. You never wanted to see me suffer.

I understand your words differently now.

I have learned that protecting my heart doesn’t mean closing it off to the world. It means recognizing that not everyone deserves access to it. It means learning to say no without guilt, walking away when something isn’t healthy for me, and choosing peace over relationships that cost me too much of myself.

Your death taught me how fragile life is, but healing is teaching me how precious my peace is.

And I have fought hard for that peace.

I didn’t choose therapy because I wanted to get over your death. I could never simply get over losing you. You are my husband. You are the father of our children. You are woven into the life I lived, the family we created, and the memories I will carry for the rest of my life.

I chose therapy because your death was traumatic.

That night changed me in ways I didn’t fully understand. My nervous system was constantly on high alert. I was easily triggered. My body reacted to reminders of what happened before my mind could even make sense of them. There were moments when I didn’t feel safe, even when I was.

I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life living that way.

So I began the hard work of helping my nervous system find safety again. Of processing the trauma of that night. Of learning to recognize my triggers and understand the ways grief and trauma had taken up residence in my body.

I wanted to heal so that my trauma would not continue to shape my relationship with our children, my friendships, or the possibility of loving someone again someday.

I wanted to stop living as though something terrible was always about to happen.

I wanted to feel safe in my own body.

I wanted to breathe without feeling like I was bracing myself for the next terrible thing.

And slowly, I am getting there.

One thing I have learned in therapy is how powerful it feels to be heard, validated, and understood. To have someone sit with your pain without dismissing it, minimizing it, or asking you to hurry up and move on.

I wish you could have experienced that, Robert.

I wish you had known what it felt like to have your pain acknowledged. To unpack the things you carried from childhood. To understand that what happened to you was not something you had to carry alone.

I wish you had known that healing didn’t mean blaming yourself or reliving your pain forever. It meant finally giving yourself permission to face it, understand it, and find a different way to live.

You carried so much pain, and I wish you had found a way to heal from it.

I wish we had both understood sooner that love alone cannot heal every wound, and that sometimes, even when people love us deeply, there is pain that requires help beyond what love can provide.

I wish things had been different.

I wish you were here.

And I wish you could see what I have learned through all of this.

A year of talk therapy, along with EMDR, has brought so much calm, joy, and happiness back into my world. Not all at once. Not without setbacks. Not without days when grief still catches me off guard.

But enough that I can feel the difference.

Over the past few weeks, coworkers and friends have told me that I have a glow about me. That I look healthier. That I seem happy.

My therapist often asks me to take a step back and scan my life, to recognize the distance between where I was and where I am now.

And when I do, I can see it.

Last year, the sadness was written all over my face. My eyes carried a heaviness that no amount of pretending could hide. I was there physically, doing what needed to be done, but so much of me was consumed by grief.

Now, people tell me there is a sparkle in my eyes.

A sparkle.

I never thought I would hear that again.

I don’t say this because I am no longer sad. I still miss you. I still have moments when the reality of your absence feels impossibly cruel. There are birthdays, milestones, quiet evenings, and ordinary moments that remind me you should be here.

But the sadness is no longer the only thing people see when they look at me.

And that matters.

For so long, I wondered if I would ever feel like myself again. I wondered if the pain would always be this consuming, if I would always feel on edge, if I would ever be able to look at my life without seeing everything that had been taken from me.

I have heard people say that, over time, grief gets easier. That the pain becomes less intense.

I am beginning to understand what that means.

Maybe grief doesn’t become smaller because our love does. Maybe we simply grow around the pain. We learn how to carry it differently. We make room for laughter again. We allow happiness to exist alongside sadness. We discover that having a good day doesn’t mean we miss the person we lost any less.

Healing doesn’t mean I love you less. It means I am learning how to live with the love I still have for you, even though I can no longer give it to you in the ways I once did.

Today, sitting on my therapist’s couch, I said something out loud that I needed to hear myself say.

I am proud of myself, Robert.

I am proud of the work I have done to heal.

I did the dirty work. The painful work. The work no one sees and no one can do for me.

I cried. I sobbed. I screamed. I talked through the same situations over and over again. I replayed that night countless times, trying to make sense of something that never should have happened. I sat with memories that hurt. I faced feelings I wanted to run from. I learned to sit in silence, to tolerate loneliness, and to stop treating every painful emotion as something I had to escape.

I learned to listen to my body. To recognize when I was triggered. To give myself grace when I wasn’t okay.

I learned that healing isn’t a straight line. It isn’t a finish line I cross one day and never have to think about again.

It is a choice I keep making.

Sometimes, healing looks like crying in a therapist’s office. Sometimes, it looks like setting a boundary. Sometimes, it looks like getting out of bed, going to work, and taking care of our children when my heart feels heavy.

And sometimes, healing looks like laughing at how many chicken tenders our son can eat, celebrating his birthday, and realizing that for a moment, I am genuinely happy.

Without guilt.

Without feeling like I am betraying you by allowing myself to enjoy life.

I am learning that I can miss you terribly and still be grateful for the life I have. I can wish you were here and still look forward to tomorrow. I can carry the deepest heartbreak of my life and still experience joy.

Both can be true.

For the first time in a very long time, I find myself looking forward to the future.

Even typing those words feels significant.

For so long, the future was something I had to get through. Something I approached one day at a time because thinking too far ahead felt overwhelming. I was trying to survive the life I never wanted, one that required me to become someone I never imagined I would have to be.

A widow. A single mom. The sole provider. A woman learning how to rebuild a life after losing the person she thought would be beside her through all of it.

I never asked for this life, Rob.

I never wanted to learn how to live without you.

But I am learning.

And I am proud of the woman I am becoming.

I am proud that I didn’t allow the worst night of my life to become the entirety of my life. I am proud that I sought help. That I stayed consistent. That I kept showing up for myself even when I felt exhausted by the process.

I am proud that I am finding my way back to joy.

I am proud that I can look at myself today and see more than a woman who lost her husband. I see a woman who is still grieving, still learning, still growing, but also becoming stronger, healthier, and more at peace.

I see a mom who is doing her best to give our children a life filled with love, stability, and beautiful memories.

I see a leader who continues to grow professionally, even after enduring something that could have taken her completely out.

I see a friend who understands the importance of healthy relationships and protecting her peace.

And perhaps, one day, I will see a woman who is ready to love again. A woman who can open her heart without abandoning herself. A woman who can welcome someone new into her life while still honoring the love and history she will always share with you.

I don’t know what that future will look like. I don’t know when it will happen, and I am no longer in a hurry to find out.

For now, I am learning to be present in the life I have. To appreciate the people who show up for me. To create memories with our children. To take care of myself. To trust that happiness is not something I have to earn through suffering.

And to recognize that I have already come so far.

Robert, I wish you were here to see all of this.

I wish you could see the progress that no one witnessed in those quiet moments when I was falling apart. I wish you could see the tears I cried, the battles I fought inside my own mind, and the courage it took to keep choosing healing when it would have been easier to shut down.

I wish you could see the sparkle in my eyes.

I wish you could see that I am finding my way back to myself.

And I wish I could tell you all of this in person, sitting beside you, rather than writing these words to someone I can no longer reach.

That is a grief I don’t think I will ever outgrow. The longing to share the person I am becoming with the person who knew so much of who I used to be.

But if I could tell you one thing today, it would be this:

I am going to be okay, Rob.

Not because losing you was okay. Not because I have accepted that you should be gone. Not because there aren’t still days when I would give anything to have you back.

But because I am learning that my life can still hold beautiful things.

Because I am doing the work.

Because I am allowing myself to heal.

Because I am finally beginning to understand that surviving your death was only the beginning. I want to do more than survive. I want to live. I want to laugh until my stomach hurts. I want to make memories with our children. I want to experience peace without waiting for something to go wrong. I want to welcome happiness without feeling afraid of losing it.

I want to live a life that honors the love we shared without requiring me to remain in pain to prove how much I loved you.

You will always be part of my story. Nothing will ever change that.

But I am learning that your death does not have to be the end of mine.

And for the first time in a long time, I am excited to see what comes next.

I am proud of my growth. I am proud of my progress. I am proud of the hard, messy, heartbreaking work it took to get here.

I am proud of the woman who kept going when she thought she couldn’t.

I am proud of the mom who continues to show up for our children.

And I am proud of the person I am becoming, even though I wish more than anything that you were here to witness it.

Maybe that is what healing looks like.

Not forgetting. Not moving on as though you never existed. Not leaving you behind.

But carrying our love with me while finally allowing myself to move forward.

I miss you, Robert. I always will.

And I wish you were here.

But I am still here.

And I am finally learning how to live again.