When I lost Mike, I had been with him for exactly half my life.
The idea that he was never returning to me was, to say the least, a shock to my system.
I felt adrift. Lost.
Sometimes I would catch myself still waiting for him. Or storing up things to tell him.
I would leave the house and feel like I had forgotten to take something (someone) with me.
I would turn to his side of the bed and reach out. Or to his side of the couch to ask him a question while I am watching something on TV.
It has taken a lot to adjust to his absence. For my spirit to get used to the ache of missing him. For me to stop reaching out.
I have had a lot of time to think about “now”. Which has been redefined since Mike died to mean “at this moment, with Mike gone”.
And “now” has also been a place that I have often hoped I am only just visiting. Because frankly, I haven’t really wanted to do “now” without my person.
But one cannot be a parent and treat “now” as a visitors-only zone.
Because having children requires me to be present. And being present isn’t possible when you are just visiting.
My reason for being, with or without my partner, has always been the same: my daughters.
While my life might feel unrecognizable and lacking, it is actually neither of these things. It has taken me a long while to recognize that. That while my partner is gone, the life we built together is mostly still standing.
And yes, it feels hard, but hasn’t it always, for one reason… or a few?
Perhaps it feels harder because I am having to do it alone, but do I really have to? Don’t I have people in my life who support me, and all that I really have to do is ask? Or maybe I should learn to accept that which is being freely given to me and my children.
Because thankfully, my village are mostly kind and generous.
Whether it is the gift of a listening ear, or the act of picking up my children, or even helping me weed my garden, sometimes all I ever have to say is "Thank you." Because truly, sometimes I don't even have to ask.
I will admit that I sometimes find myself in a place where I want to say, "I don't need help; I can do it alone." But more and more, I am learning to lean on my village, knowing that I, too, can be a giver when someone else needs help.
Grief can cast a dark shadow that distorts vision because pain adds a monochromatic filter to everything.
And losing someone that loved you and made you feel whole… and maybe even a better version of yourself than you thought possible?
It strikes down your confidence. In yourself. In your ability to do life without them.
But the truth is, I am still me, even if maybe a little broken. I am still the person God created.
And I have faith in my ability to heal. Because I want to. For my children.
I have learned to be mindful of these things:
That although my life looks different, it is not completely devastated.
That life has always been hard, even before “now”.
That I have a village, and learning to accept help is often harder than asking for it.
That I am, and have always been, a child of God, even if I am no longer Mike’s wife.
That I can heal.
Healing starts, I think, with gratitude. With counting the blessings in my day. Or even in the moment.
My breath prayer, as of late, has changed from “Help me, God” to “Thank you, God.”
And I think this has made all the difference.
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