It’s been nearly three years since life as I knew it came to an abrupt halt. It was the 2nd phone call in 4 weeks that no one ever wants to receive … this was the call that told me my husband, the father of my children, the man I thought would be my partner through life’s journey, was gone forever. In the blink of an eye, I found myself navigating a reality I never anticipated—a reality filled with hidden truths, unresolved trauma, and the immense weight of becoming the sole pillar for my five beautiful children.
The initial shock gave way to a fierce determination to fight, to rebuild, to prove to myself and to the world that I could rise from the ashes of my shattered dreams. But the journey of widowhood is not linear. It’s a path marked by peaks of fleeting hope and valleys of profound despair. Over these three years, my resolve has been tested time and again. The fight in me, once a blazing fire, has at times dwindled to mere embers. The reality of carrying both the emotional burden of loss and the practical responsibilities of single parenthood is daunting.
Most days feel like an uphill battle. In the early days of my grief, I was propelled forward by adrenaline and the immediate necessity to keep everything afloat for my children. But as the dust settled and the world moved on, the true weight of my loss and the challenges it brought began to sink in. There are moments of clarity and strength, fleeting glimpses where I believe I can conquer it all. Yet, these are often followed by the crushing realization of my limitations.
I’m tired. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and dulls the light in your eyes. I’m angry at the injustice of it all, at the future that was stolen from us, and at times, at myself for not being able to move past it. The sadness, a constant companion, overshadows the anger, leaving me to grapple with feelings of defeat and despair.
Today, I’ve decided to pause. To allow myself the grace to acknowledge the weight of my journey, to feel the full extent of my pain without rushing to brush it aside. I’m stepping outside to bask in the sunlight, to breathe in the fresh air, and to let my tears flow freely. There’s healing in allowing oneself to feel, to mourn not just the person lost but also the dreams and plans that died with them.
Tonight, I’ll go through the motions of self-care, washing away the tears, preparing for another day. Tomorrow, I will pick up the pieces and start again, driven by the knowledge that each day brings me one step closer to healing. The path to recovery is fraught with setbacks and challenges, but I hold onto the hope that it will get better.
To anyone walking this path of widowhood and healing, know that it’s okay to feel the depth of your pain. It’s okay to take a day to simply exist, to mourn, to feel. Our strength is not measured by our ability to push through the pain untouched but by our willingness to face it head-on, to acknowledge our struggles, and to keep moving forward, one day at a time. We are building a mosaic of resilience, each piece a testament to our courage, our love, and our capacity to endure.
Tomorrow, we start anew. But for today, let’s allow ourselves the space to simply be in our grief, to find solace in our memories, and to draw strength from the knowledge that we are not alone in our journey. Together, we will find our way through the darkness, guided by the light of those we’ve lost and the unwavering hope for a brighter tomorrow.
Save the dates! Join us for the 2024 Widows of Hope 5K, taking place May 10-12! This annual initiative encourages activity while raising awareness for the 245 million widowed women worldwide and honoring loved ones. Additionally, May 3rd, National Widows Day, when we’ll reopen applications for our Restoring Hope and Peace Grant. Learn more here: https://hopeforwidows.org/grant/ and continue to look out on all our social media platforms for updates.
This is how I feel, the weight of grief sinking in as it’s 21 months. I have two children and when we lost my husband unexpectedly, everything about our life stopped. In doing everything I can to sustain us, the weight of it really just now is being felt. Thank you for sharing this.