After Doing What's Necessary, We Move On To What's Possible

I really wish I could take credit for the title of this blog, but it actually comes from Anne Lamott's brilliant book "Hallelujah Anyway: Rediscovering Mercy" - which I highly recommend. Reading this quote was one of those hair-standing-up-on-your-arm moments and I couldn't wait to share it with this group.

After all, isn't this what we face on this journey?

Widowhood is a long list of necessaries - at least it has been for me. I've met other widows - more evolved widows - who seemed to have their shit together right from the beginning. While I was stuck in approval-mode, hoping to make everyone happy, other widows were saying, "No. I don't want to do that."

I didn't even know that was possible.

We all have have-tos in life, but the necessary stuff gets compounded when you're widowed. Yes, widowed or not everyone has to pay their bills and make sure the kids get to school, but then there's other stuff, too. Now, this list is just my own, so you might not think that these were necessary things, but I sure did.

1. Feed the kids. Like, every day. For the next 25 years. By yourself.
2. Get the kids to school. Like, every day. For the next 25 years. By yourself.
3. Make others feel better about the thoughtless things they say so you don't find yourself completely alone.
4. Therapy.
5. Get the dog to the vet and try to get that stupid cone on all by yourself.
6. Get up in the morning knowing that sleeping in will not be possible until 2030.
7. Making time to cry in your car.
8. Give everyone else suggestions for Christmas presents for their spouses knowing you won't get one.
9. Kids therapy.
10. Car maintenance. Enough said.
11. Taxes. On everything.
12. Decisions. About everything.
13. Does my dog need therapy?
14. Unclogging the vacuum.

The list of necessaries goes on and on.

But there does come a point when you get used to it - or at least most of it - and your head starts clearing. Then something else gets added to the list.

Figure out what to do next.

And that's when possibility kicks in.

I don't know if we can really grasp "possible" until the fog clears - and sometimes it's hard to see even then. It's always there, it's just sometimes hidden and nothing hides "possible" better than grief.

"Possible" includes everything from making major life decisions - like moving, switching jobs, going back to school - to little things like taking care of ourselves in a way that REALLY makes us feel taken care of (something that I don't think is possible until we get over the "necessary" part).

I remember talking to my sister a few months after Brad died and saying, "I don't know what to do next." I didn't mean it in a self-defeated way; I felt like everything was open to me and I was overwhelmed. I'd been a stay-at-home mom long enough to make my resume almost obsolete, so my options felt endless. And I had no idea what to do.

Over a decade after losing my husband and raising three kids on my own, I feel a little like I'm moving out of the necessary phase and into the possible. In a few years, my time will be my own in a way that it never has been before. My youngest told me that she was talking to a friend the other day and they were both somewhat in awe of the fact that I've raised the kids completely on my own. But it was necessary.

Now it might be time to see what's possible.

The Worst Widow

I think I've just gone from a "mediocre widow" to the worst widow.

Yesterday was my husband's 47th birthday. I was cranky all day and had a panic attack in the middle of the night which has made me tired and cranky today.

It's no secret that I've made some mistakes when it comes to my widowness, most of which I documented in a 300 page book. But yesterday threw me yet again.

To catch some of you up, when Brad died I did everything from suggest we put his ashes in a Bud Light bottle to installing an enormous headstone with the wrong birth date on it. Most of these little issues have made people laugh (mainly my sister), but in the moment I just felt awful.

Which brings me to yesterday.

It was a long day with several work frustrations that were magnified by my general crankiness. I did feel better when my son and I volunteered at a women's shelter and served dinner (although, I was sad that my daughters couldn't join us). I felt that was the perfect way to spend what we used to refer to as Daddy Day.

I got home and flopped on the couch and started scrolling through social media where I saw my sister-in-law had posted several pictures of Brad in remembrance of his birthday with a subject line that generally said, "I can't believe it's been 12 years."

I kind of rolled my eyes and thought to myself, "It's been thirteen years. Don't you know how long your brother's been gone?"

(Brenda - if you're reading this, I'm sorry for my attitude. If it makes you feel any better, at least you didn't have to deal with me in person all day because I was pretty much like this to everyone.)

Then, and I don't know why I did this because I was so sure I was right, I pulled up my calculator app and did the math.

Oh, for crying out loud. It's been 12 years.

I felt sick. How could I have gotten this wrong???? How could I still be making widow mistakes 13 - wait, no. Twelve - years later???? How could I have married an astronautical engineer when I can't even do basic math?????

I went to bed last night feeling even more depressed than when the day started. And I know that this feeling will go away and possibly be funny in about a week. But right now, I feel like the worst widow.

And to Brad - I'm sorry, sweetie. But you knew I couldn't add when you married me.

Widowhood and Back-to-School: People Aren't Meant to do This Alone

A big part of me has always hated this time of year. I've written about it before - how nothing screams the passage of time as a single parent quite like back-to-school. All the pictures of two parents hugging children on social media, happy families going to open houses where excited kids run the halls looking for classrooms - all of it has always made me feel so very widowed.

But after 13 years, I thought I had it licked. Don't get me wrong - the first few years were horrible and I still tear up at any school awards ceremonies, wishing my husband could be there with me.  But I got used to it. I'd feel sad, but it wouldn't overwhelm me.

Not like this year.

As I write this, I'm sitting alone in a hotel room after dropping my daughter off at college. I'll fly home tomorrow, where I will hug my two younger kids and be grateful for my remaining time with them at home like I have never been before. Last night, I optimistically thought I'd have time on my own this afternoon to explore the city and do something fun.

At 11:00 this morning, I decided my time would be better spent resting and allowing myself to cry.

Millions of parents are going through what I'm going through this weekend - I know this because the Targets and Walmarts near my daughter's university are completely cleaned out. They look like war zones. The thing is that not all of them are going through it alone. And that has brought my grief all the way back to those first years of preschool and elementary school when I was a newly widowed parent, completely devastated that I was experiencing this all by myself.

It made me think of something that I wrote in my book about how, while others will offer help, no one is "in it" like your spouse is. No one is as invested in your children as they are. So, without that partner, you just don't have the same support.

I know that even with a partner, this time of year can be devastating (in a positive way - so weird). Last night at a moving ceremony, I thought the person behind me was laughing. I finally turned just a little to give them the stink-eye and realized she was sobbing. So, it's not like the hurt is reserved for the widowed.

Sitting next to my daughter today, just before we parted, I felt like I did bringing her to school for the first time. Her hand in mine was the size of an adult, but it still felt like she was in kindergarten to me. It was a surreal moment when I left her, like dropping her off for summer camp. I had a couple of years where all the kids went to camp for two weeks at the same time and, while it was nice to have time to myself, I had serious anxiety when I left them. Your family makes your home no matter where you are - I learned that when I said goodbye to them.

And today I left a little piece of my home in a dorm room with two other girls - but the pain feels even more acute.

As I got into my car this morning after the final ceremony, I thought about the other parents getting into there's. Were they crying together? Were they just talking about what to do with the rest of their day? Were they sitting in silence, wondering if their relationship would be better or worse now that the buffer of a child was gone?

I so desperately wanted Brad sitting next to me, sharing this experience as only the other parent could. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I had this widow thing under control. I started sobbing as I pulled out of the parking garage and have kept up a steady stream since then - I wish he could be here so we could comfort each other, or even distract each other.

I've gotten very good at being alone and it's something that I crave in many cases. But what I'm experiencing right now should never be experienced alone. The growth and transition of a family should be experienced by a WHOLE family and I can't help but feel the sorrow of two parents right now, because one isn't here to go through it.

My daughter has been dry-eyed and excited this weekend and that has made all of this a little more bearable. I've been doing my best to shield her from my own grief. I'm sure there will be moments of homesickness for her, just like I'm homesick for her already. And I'm so grateful for her enthusiasm and her ability to jump into this next chapter with both feet. There's something I can learn from that.

For a process that's part of our evolution, this seems downright inhumane. I've had many moments when I've thought, "I can't do this." In fact, I almost wanted to leave her at some points and just walk out because this was all too much to bear (which makes no sense - I'm sad because I don't want to leave her, but my body wanted to run away? Explain that to me, therapist).

I have no idea what comes next because, like childbirth, you can't explain something like this to someone else - you just have to plow your way through it. Honestly, if we could accurately explain childbirth, no one would have babies. If I could truly put into words how painful sending a kid to college is, no one would get past high school. So, I guess this just has to be part of the parenting experience.

Will I feel better when I get home tomorrow? How long with this grief process last? Will my heart ever feel whole again?

I don't know.

So, now I'm going to completely clean this hotel room out of tissues and allow myself to sit still and just feel what I need to feel (which is not easy for me) and hope that our next version of the new normal isn't hard to find.

Because right now I feel more than a little lost.

The Moment Collector

Whew. These last few days have kicked my ass.

School starts this week, which has actually never been an easy time for me. I don't know if other widows experience this, but back-to-school has always signified the passing of time like almost nothing else does. It's another year of firsts, another year he's missing.

This year's back-to-school is compounded by the fact that my oldest is leaving for college across the country later this week. And while I spent the beginning of last school year crying, I quickly got a hold of myself, determined not to let my grief over her leaving spoil the time I had left with her.

And now the time has come.

I hope I'm not delusional in thinking that in a couple of weeks, I think I'll be okay. It's just the anticipation of this goodbye that's got me thinking I need to increase my anxiety meds for the short-term. Truthfully, as most parents of teenagers will probably agree with, I don't see her much now - and she's still living in my house.

So, in many ways, I think our day-to-day won't be that different from how we've experienced this summer. There have been moments when I've had to stop and ask myself, "Is she even home?"

But I will miss her. As I type this, I have a ball of nausea pinging around my stomach.

I've been trying to find some coping tools to help me get through this week (one of which has been binging on Downton Abbey - it's been on nonstop). I was going through my bookshelf and I found a book I bought long ago called 1,001 Ways to Live in the Moment. And I opened it up to #1.

Precious Moments

The miser who hoards his wealth but neglects the more important values of life is a figure rightly disdained in folklore and literature. Trying to hold on to the moment is similarly desperate. Instead, appreciate the unfolding wealth of life as it presents itself to your experience. The moment passes; beauty fades; life follows its eternal cycle of birth, death and rebirth. Let precious moments pass in to memory, without regret. And don't spend your life in the memory-vault fondling the accumulated riches you've stored there - search out and welcome fresh moments instead of reliving stale ones.

This really struck me because for the first time I realized that I am not just a memory collector - I'm a memory hoarder. While some people fill their homes with stuff to the point where they can barely move, I try to fill my life with moments to the point where I can barely move forward.

When I was a young adult, I went through a time when I had to have as much time with my parents as I could. It was like I was starved for it. Any vacation time I had from work was spent going to see them. And I know you're thinking that that makes me a model daughter, but the truth is that I was almost trying to absorb every bit of them that I could. And it would never be enough.

I don't think I've ever been especially good at "searching out and welcoming fresh moments" because I'm so intent on making moments that are mine, that I can keep and store and submerge myself in.

All this goes back to, again, not living in the present. It's not enough that I'm having a moment with friends or family - I have to do it so intensely and make it the most memorable and fulfilling moment I possibly can.

And in the end, I put so much pressure on these moments, I don't think it's possible to truly enjoy them. I put so much weight on each moment, it's kind of a wonder I don't have an ulcer or that I'm not on stronger meds than I am.

It's true that this is a huge time of transition and I'm allowing the tears to come as much as I possibly can. I just don't want to put so much pressure on each moment I have left with my family under the same roof that I end up not enjoying any of it.

I Lost Him Before You Did

My husband died on July 18, 2007. But that's not the day I lost him.

He was in an accident on his way to work on July 16th. Later that day he had a stroke. The next day the doctors determined his brain was swelling. And he died on the 18th.

When I saw my husband in the hospital on the 16th, I thought he would be coming home. Later that day, I thought he would come home, but paralyzed from a stroke. But when I sat with him on the 16th, before the stroke happened, we talked, we joked, I brought my bag from my car with a People magazine. Things had changed but we were together.

Later that day, he wouldn't wake up. His last words sounded like a toddler's because, unbeknownst to us, he'd already had a stroke.

I lost my husband that day.

His body followed a few days later.

For years, I mourned the 16th while others remembered the 18th. Thinking back I think I held it sacred because I felt like that was our last day together. I think there was a part of me that wanted his passing - the passing of who he was - to be mine.

As I write this, I'm thinking about others who have lost spouses and partners who know exactly what I'm talking about. You know the moment you lost them before anyone else did. It's a moment you will never forget that almost overshadows the moment they were physically gone. It could have been months before, or moments before.

But it's your moment to hold.

Mind, Body, Spirit Goals

Okay, people. I've been in a very "woo woo" phase lately. Scientific hand analysis, energy work, church, self-help books and podcasts - you name it, I've been trying it.

One of the things I've been trying to do is a gratitude journal, which isn't a new concept. And I've been really good about keeping up with it. I just honestly can't tell if it's doing anything.

Yes, I appreciate the butterfly that's outside my office window right now and the fact that my son emptied the dishwasher last night. And I do think it helps to be more mindful of these things. But I can't tell if it's making a difference when it comes to my overall outlook and how I go about my day.

A couple of weeks ago, I was feeling terrible. I think I was in my pre-grief stage as the anniversary of my husband's death approached as well as our wedding anniversary. This summer has also been emotional as I prepare to send my oldest to college and all the changes that will come with it.

But one thing I noticed was that I hadn't been doing any of the usual mind/spirit stuff that have become a part of my life in the last few months. Because of our hectic schedule, I hadn't been to church and the book I was listening to - Take Control of Your Life by Mel Robbins - wasn't really feeding my soul. It was helpful, yes, but because the "coaching" she does in the book...I just kind of felt like I was being yelled at.

Until that part of my life was gone, I didn't realize how much I needed it. It really did send me into a little bit of a depression. I wasn't taking my morning walks because our summer schedule was so off. Generally...I was just kind of flailing about.

This morning I decided I was going to get back into my groove. After getting my youngest off to theater camp, I went over to the gym and listened to a podcast on the way. I got my body moving and, as is usually the case with me, my mind followed.

Anyone want to try this with me?

I've decided that I'm going to shift my gratitude journal exercise in the evening and try something different. Instead of writing down three things I'm grateful for, I'm going to write down what I've done for my mind, body, and spirit each day. It doesn't have to be major and some days I might have more time to dedicate to it than others, but I think it will help me have a mental checklist to make sure I cover these three things.

Mind

What counts for mind? Maybe reading my book for 15 minutes before going to bed, a podcast in my car, or a YouTube tutorial about something I've wanted to learn more about. Just something that gets my mind going.

Body

I am not a gym rat and there are some days when I don't feel like moving at all. So, what will count for this? Anything from a walk around the block to swimming a few laps in the pool if I'm there with the kids to a full-on workout at the gym. I will congratulate myself for any one of these things and I will check it off for the day.

Spirit

To me, something spiritual is anything that feeds your soul. It could be organized religion, meditation, or even working in the garden. We all know that "full" feeling when we feel it and it's different for everyone. Even if I only have a few minutes to ground myself - even if it's while sitting in my car in traffic - and just be mindful...that counts.

I don't blame you if you're thinking this sounds pretty "woo woo" - I can practically hear the members of my family rolling their eyes at this. But knowing how I feel when I skip these things makes me want to make the effort to do them. Some days I might have 10 minutes to do them and some days I might have the luxury of taking more time. But I think at the end of the day, if I can check them off, I'll feel a bigger sense of accomplishment.

And for that, I'll be grateful.

I've Said It Before and I'll Say It Again...

Last night I was on my walk listening to a podcast about moving forward. I know, I know - one of our favorite topics. To reiterate, it was about moving forward and not moving on, which is the phrase we really hate, right?

They interviewed a woman who had PTSD after serving on a jury that sent a man to death row. They interviewed a woman who was diagnosed with leukemia at 22. And they interviewed a widow.

The widow they interviewed did a great job - she provided lots of valuable insight that I agreed with and said what we all think: It doesn't matter how long it's been. We move forward with our late spouses not from them.

I loved how she said that when she remarried a year and a half after her husband passed, it felt like her entire social circle breathed a sigh of relief like, "Thank God that's over" - as if by remarrying that meant she was done with being a widow. I get what she's saying because I often feel like people would feel the same relief if I remarried as well.

But I haven't. And that's what I want to talk about.

It seems like every interview and most books and articles about widows end with them being in a new relationship - like that's the only way someone who has experienced loss will get their happy ending.

I feel like that implies that the rest of us are just dangling out there doing nothing and that we will never be able to wrap our lives up in a tidy little package like everyone else. "Chapter 2" implies a new relationship. So, that must mean a large percentage of us will never get past Chapter 1.

I DO NOT BELIEVE THAT.

This month marks my 13th year as a widow. I have had two "serious" relationships during that time. When the second one ended, I decided there was more to my life than just looking for a relationship. It was hard figuring out how to be on my own, but let's face it - being in a relationship is hard. Being happy on your own requires a lot of adjustments, creativity, and effort but it's been my experience that it's worth it - if that's what you choose.

I am in no way judging anyone who moves into a new relationship after losing a spouse or partner, no matter the timing or the circumstances. I'm just so tired of our community only being represented by people who are remarried. Just because I haven't moved forward with someone doesn't mean I haven't moved forward. It doesn't mean I don't have a full life with meaningful relationships, doing things I love to do.

Companionship is wonderful and who knows? Maybe I'll look for it at some point. But my ability to lead a happy life has nothing to do with who occupies the passenger side of my bed.

Incidentally - that's my dog Max right now.

Overload

I'm not in a great headspace right now, so please forgive me if this turns into a rant. I'm having one of those toddler moments when I just want to sit down on the floor and wail.

And I've done that quite a bit the last couple of days. Not as much on the floor, but in my bed, in the car, and many times at my desk (yes, I work from home so the only coworker who is alarmed is my dog).

The last couple of months have been non-stop and I think I've finally hit my limit. Between the constant activity and my husband's death anniversary (and our wedding anniversary) coming up, my whole body feels like it's just DONE.

Last week I went with my daughter to her freshman orientation and after we got back from the airport at 1 AM, I could barely move for the next 24-hours. I've managed to rally and get moving when I need to, but my body, mind and spirit are just spent right now.

I know you know what I'm talking about.

I've spent the last week in varying stages of self-pity; those moments have been broken up by frustration and anger. And that's not like me. I'm actually a pretty naturally optimistic person (not counting this blog). But I'm just. so. tired.

This morning I was trying to look at articles for clients and I could not read them. Seriously. I had no idea what they meant. It was like they were written in a foreign language when in fact they were in English. But right now I only speak Grief.

A few weeks ago, I had someone tell me that I needed to say "no" more, that I was self-sabotaging myself by being so busy. I was already in a fragile state of mind, but that fragility quickly turned to fury.

Note to the world at large: Don't ever tell a widowed single mother that she should say "no" more. It's not helpful and just says to the widow that you have no concept of what she goes through daily.

WHAT SHOULD I SAY NO TO? Being the only parent? The only person who pays the bills? Oh, wait! I know. I should say no to getting my sprinkler system fixed and going to the grocery store. Better yet, maybe I shouldn't try to figure out how I'm going to pay for college next year and when I'm going to get my oil changed.

Sorry, World. Someone told me to say "no" so I guess that means I don't have to do anything I don't want to for the next month. I had no idea it would be so easy!

Yeah. Right.

I just had a therapy session and I actually warned my therapist in a text before I got there.

I'm not doing well, I said. I'm nauseous and I can't stop crying.

By the time I got there, I was pretty tempted to ask her if I could take a $150 nap on her couch. I just wanted my mind to stop.

I want a vacation from being a widow. Is that too much to ask?

Last night I had a dream about my husband and he was driving us somewhere.

"You need to slow down," I said.

"I know what I'm doing," he replied.

"Obviously not," I snapped alluding to the car accident that killed him.

Even my dead husband can't avoid my bad mood.

"The wound is the place the light enters you." -Rumi

I've heard this quote twice today. I believe that when the universe calls, you have to respond.

It's been a tough couple of days - you all know what it's like. And you can't explain it to anyone else unless they've been through it. It's not just tired (that's such an inadequate word). You can't stop crying and you've lost all hope that you're going to get out of whatever funk you're in and even though it's only lasted a few days, you feel like it's lasted decades.

Let's call them Widow Days, shall we? It's code for "life sucks today and nothing anyone says or does is going to make it better."

How uplifting. Bet you're glad you stumbled onto this blog, eh?

Anyway, it's been building and it's not surprising. The next 30 days are my trigger time; some years I almost float through them and some years I can't function at all. It sucks because I never know which it's going to be. I think things would be a lot easier if you could just prepare.

What set me off this year? Getting my daughter ready for college. And it's not the fact that she's going to college that had me crying uncontrollably. It's the logistics.

I called my sister, the Financial Planner, because while my daughter has been accepted to college and all money has been figured out (for the most part) I wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next. I've been lying awake at night worrying that the tuition bill would arrive and I wouldn't be prepared, so I decided the best way to get back to sleep was to tackle it.

My sister sat on the phone with me as I went through all of the paperwork the university had sent to find out what the next steps are with the funding that had been offered. Within 5 minutes, I was sobbing uncontrollably.

Now, common sense would say that I was crying over the money, right? And while that's its own separate source of stress, the reason why I was crying was actually more basic.

I don't want to do this.

I don't want to do car maintenance. I don't want to figure out why my sprinklers are leaking. I don't want to figure out our household budget and how I alone am going to make things happen.

I did  not fucking sign up to do this alone.

This is when the widow-child in me wants to sit down on the floor, arms crossed in front of her, pout on her face and say, "NO. I don't wanna."

Of course, after I hung up with my very alarmed sister, I figured out what I was supposed to do about the college stuff within 5 minutes. Seriously. One click of a button.

Didn't matter. The damage had been done. The floodgates had opened. I spent the rest of the day fighting tears through three business calls and finally fell asleep after midnight only to have a little bit of an emotional hangover this morning.

Wait a Minute

Crap. I just realized that I wrote this whole blog and it has nothing to do with the quote I posted. Good Lord - I just can't get it together.

Okay...hmmmm...wound...light...

I felt wounded yesterday and my light was on until midnight? That can't be it.

Come on, Universe. What are you trying to tell me?

Is Grief the Price We Pay for Love?

I think a lot of us have probably heard that saying. Something along the lines of "grief is our proof that we loved." For me, that saying ranks right up there with "everything happens for a reason."

I'm not a fan. Personally, I'd rather have my husband here and just tell everyone I love him. That seems much easier.

This was the subject of a recent podcast I was listening to with Glennon Doyle. To be honest, I haven't read any of her books and when I first started listening to her I wondered if I would have anything in common with her. But she was one of the first adults I'd ever heard speak about how she was a sensitive child and how that always made her feel like the black sheep in her family. And that I understood, but didn't realize anyone else felt that way.

So, she got my attention.

In the podcast I was listening to she said this:

"Grief is love's souvenir. It's our proof that we once loved. Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world: Look! Love was once mine. I love well. Here is my proof that I paid the price."

Again, if I'm going to have a souvenir, I'd really rather my husband be here and for us to be wearing "I'm with stupid" sweatshirts or something. 

Later in the podcast she started talking about embracing pain. Seriously? If I could, I would run from it as fast as I could - and I'm not a runner. This body was not built for speed. But pain is something that I fear in myself and, even more, I fear witnessing in other people (especially my children). I want to fix whatever is happening and move forward as quickly as possible. And if I can't fix, I want to numb.

But she brought up a good point. I'm going to paraphrase here, so if you want to listen to what she really said, click here for the podcast. When talking to a mother who expressed her wish to keep her son from feeling pain, Glennon asked her, "What kind of person do you want your son to be?"

"I want him to be kind and wise," said the mother.

"How do you think he gets that way? From experiencing pain." 

Hmmmm. That's a thinker.

Solomon Says

Yesterday I was at church and the pastor was talking about the many devastating things that have been happening - especially here in Colorado in the last month or so. He quoted Ecclesiastes and said, "For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief."

In other words, the more experience you have, the more sorrow you'll experience.

But, sorry Solomon, I just have to reverse this for a minute. Because I believe that "with much sorrow comes much wisdom." I would say that the people who participate and follow the Widow Chick page are some of the kindest and wisest people I know. And while I know we all wish we could have gained that wisdom by wearing that "I'm with stupid" sweatshirt while standing next to our spouses, at least wisdom is something we can get out of this sorrow.

I would say that if you refuse to learn something from this pain, if you refuse to allow it to make you a kinder, wiser person, then you never got your souvenir - you've left the experience empty-handed. Our stories and the stories of our loved ones are our legacies. 

And as Glennon Doyle said, "Grief and pain are like joy and peace; they are not things we should try to snatch from each other. They're sacred. they are part of each person's journey. All we can do is offer relief from this fear: I am all alone. That's the one fear you can alleviate."

Not Winning Today (?)

I'm going to be completely upfront: this blog might not make any sense to anyone else but me. But because writing is part of how I process things, I'm doing this for myself. So if I lose you somewhere in here, that's totally fine. I just need to work through my day.

The reason why there is a question mark in parenthesis in the title is because I've had an extremely heavy day - actually a pretty heavy week - and right now I'm feeling completely drained, weepy, nauseous, and like I just want to crawl in a hole. But I'm hoping that because of what I'm going through it's actually leading me toward the greater good.

I've always been upfront about my love of therapy, but this week I embarked on a different journey and today it brought me back to a place I wasn't expecting to visit again. A few weeks ago, I went to a workshop that focused on scientific hand analysis and energy work. I was so impressed with how I felt that day that I signed up for continuing work - at one point, during a visualization exercise I felt so euphoric that I wanted to do what I could to feel that way as much as possible.

Even though I invest in therapy, investing in myself is something I don't often do. In fact, I never do it. After I paid for the ongoing program, I actually devoted an entire therapy session to the fact that I'd spent the money on this new program. Ironically, one of the reasons why I signed up for it was to address my issues surrounding my fear of money. But that will have to wait.

I realize that scientific hand analysis sounds a lot like palm reading, but it's not. To take the verbiage from the woman who worked on mine, Jayne Sanders, it's like this:

The lines in your hands mimic the neural pathways in your brain. Consistent thought and behavior patterns not only mark your brain but also your hands. The more frequent and/or intense the thoughts and behaviors, the more defined the lines in your hands. Therefore…

Your hands contain information about your physical, emotional, and spiritual selves. Whether you are aware of them or not, your behavior patterns, challenges, personality elements, approach to work, and innate talents are shown in the lines in your hands.

There's a lot more info and if you're still with me, click here and you can read more. 

Given the fact that I feel a little out of alignment with my purpose right now, I was hoping this might help move me in a certain direction. It's too early to tell, but the process was really interesting. Some of it I knew about myself. Some of it I didn't. Some of it I think I knew, but I needed someone else to tell me. Most of all, it was interesting to know why I sometimes feel out of alignment and gain tools to regain balance. I'm really excited about working on that part.

Today I met with the woman who does the energy work, Michelle Wilson. I've been excited about this appointment, again, hoping to gain more clarity. I went in feeling optimistic and thought I had this. I mean, I spend a LOT of time in reflection, trying to be more self-aware, more conscious, so I thought I was about to be an energy superstar.

The energy work begins by seeing if there are any energy blocks - and that was the moment I realized that I'm not as far along as I thought I was. In doing muscle testing (here's a little more about that) we immediately started realizing that I had blocks that, frankly, I thought I had overcome years ago - most of it surrounding trauma and the fear of despair. Yes, I realize that most people don't want to feel despair, but until today I didn't realize that I actually fear it.

It makes sense. I still fight my grief and any other unpleasant feelings as much as I can, but I didn't realize how much that was still damaging me. After all, I literally wrote a book about grief. Am I a fraud? God, I hope not. I just think that I've probably dealt with everything on a more surface level (because I'm scared) and my body is telling me I'm not done.

I won't lie. This is a terrible feeling. But I'm also wondering what the outcome will be and what would have happened if I hadn't realized this. While I don't feel great, I also feel hopeful.

Since I now know from my hand analysis that one of my master paths is as a "successful spiritual teacher helping people through crises of meaning and radical transformation" (I cried when she said "crises of meaning"), I thought I would write about this for myself and maybe for the one person who might read it.

And for those of you who are still in the very raw stages of grief, I hope you don't read this and think, "SHIT. I'm going to still be feeling this way after 13 years?"

I can't say whether you will or you won't. All I know is that it's worth it to me to figure out who I am and how I can be my best self for me. And apparently I still have work to do.

Winning at Coping

I have been dreading this month, this summer, for years.

Next week my oldest will be graduating from high school and in the fall I'll be making the long trip across the country to bring her to school.

I wrote about this months ago. I sat at my computer in tears, wondering how in the world I was going to get through it. Yes, I have two more children at home, but this marks the beginning of a new chapter for our family and the start of all my little chickadees leaving the nest.

I'll be honest - there have been moments when I don't mind the thought of it so much. When the trash can is overflowing because no one but me takes it out or when it's so noisy I can't concentrate, I envision a future me in a quiet house working only with my own schedule instead of waking up in the morning wondering how it's all going to get done.

Months ago I was sitting in a therapy session, crying about what was coming up and my therapist said something very helpful. "I once had a client who cried for two years before her daughter graduated and then when it happened she came in and she'd never been happier."

I was hopeful when she said that because that's typically what happens to me. I'll cry for the two weeks leading up to my deceased husband's birthday and then on the actual day, I'm completely fine. Sure enough, at my daughter's senior field hockey banquet, an event I'd been dreading since she was a freshman, I sat there with dry eyes. (It helped that most of the girls were fighting by then, so we were pretty happy to let it go.)

In the last few weeks I've attended senior awards ceremonies, her last choir concert, and other events that have had me crying for three years, anticipating the LAST ONE. And at each of the events, I might have had a short teary moment, but for the most part. I've felt okay. I'd even say I was happy.

"What's changed?" my therapist asked.

My secret

Living in the present is not so much as secret as it is an impossible goal - or at least I've always thought of it that way. I'm a worrier and a regretter. I've battled anxiety and depression. And all of those things mean that I've either been living in the past or worried about the future.

But again, to actually think about the present was something I have never been capable of doing - until I had an epiphany.

I was sitting in bed one night, crying over what was to come, when I realized that I was wasting valuable time. Instead of enjoying the time I have with my daughter, I was dreading the future that was months away. I was missing out.

I had FOMO.

If I sat and cried through that choir concert, that would mean I was thinking about either the baby she was or the fact that she's leaving. I wasn't in the moment, soaking it in, remembering every detail as much as possible, enjoying that time and being happy for her. I was ruining the time I had left with her.

And that scared me more than her leaving.

I've started a little exercise that's helped me greatly when it comes to her leaving and calming down my anxiety in general. When I start feeling those tears or start worrying about something that likely won't happen I ask myself this question:

Are you okay right now?

I mean that in a very literal sense. Are you breathing? Is it a beautiful day outside? Are you sitting in a home that you're grateful for? Are you spending time with family you love? Can you feel the chair underneath you? What are the words the choir is singing? What is happening right now in this moment?

Notice I'm not asking if my credit cards are paid off or if everything on my work to-do list is done. I mean very literally WHAT IS HAPPENING?

I'm not saying that there won't be any tears leading up to the fall or sadness when she goes, but I know I'm doing my very best to soak up each moment as it comes right now. I don't want to think back on these milestones and realized that I missed a moment with her, thinking about what she needs to pack in two months or the moment we will finally say goodbye.

I know I can choose to worry and dread or I can choose her.

No Give Backs

I've hesitated writing this blog for about a week. My first concern is that I don't want to hurt anyone I love. The second issue has been...well...I've been processing.

Once again, just when you think you have this whole widow thing figured out, something comes along and derails you a little. After 12 years, those moments are fewer, but it still happens. And when it happens it seems to be a little more shocking because you're not expecting it.

A few weeks ago, someone gave me a bag of stuff; books to read, magazines, and some shirts they didn't want and thought maybe the kids would. In that bag, was a shirt that I had gifted to them that was my husband's.

I wasn't expecting it and the moment I saw it in the bag (where it still is - when things like this happen I get a little paralyzed) I was flooded - SERIOUSLY FLOODED - with memories.

It had been a favorite, one that was important to him and something he wore all the time. Picturing him walking out the door to work wearing it seemed like it had just happened yesterday. It was so VIVID.

And I was angry.

Actually, first I was a little hysterical - like the ugly-can't-catch-your-breath hysterical. And then I got angry.

Why had they returned it? Why hadn't they just kept it? It was so painful getting rid of it the first time and it was something I had considered carefully. I'd said good-bye once. And now I would either have to do it again, or put it in the bin of "stuff" that I still had.

It took me a few days to realize that, when I really thought it through, they probably thought they were doing the right thing. After all, it's not up to them to keep everything that was my husband's; that's an unrealistic expectation for anyone. So, as they cleared out their own clutter, they had two options:

1. Either give it back to me because it could be important to me.
2. Or give it away.

Now, this is where there really is no right answer. What if they'd given it away? Then they would have run the risk of offending me. So, what's the other option?

Give it back.

How were they to know that I'd already held it in my hands once and said good-bye and how much I didn't want to do that again?

I usually try to end these blogs with some lesson or some sort of wrap up. But I actually want to know...which would you rather?

Should someone give back something of your spouse's or is it less painful for you if they donate it without telling you?

The Gift of Loss: Finding Your Magic

Weird title, right? Some of you are nodding and some of you are unliking my Facebook page.

It's all good. To each their own.

We've talked a lot about some of the gifts that often come with loss. And I think we all agree that, while we love the gifts, we wish we had gotten them a different way. 

Like when I got a hangnail in my 20s...why didn't that inspire a deep empathy for others? Or when I got cut off in traffic...why didn't that make me realize that each person has their own path and pace? When my toddler screamed in the grocery store...why didn't I instantly know that there were going to be good days and bad days, but it was up to me to decide how I handled things?

I don't know. But I sure wish life worked that way.

Anyway, I do think a lot about some of the gifts I've received because of this trauma and loss. I even think about the gifts I've received as a result of my anxiety/panic disorder. It's all very twisted. But I know I'm a better person as a result of what I've been through.

I recently received Elizabeth Gilbert's Big Magic in my Singles Swag box (if you don't know what that is, do yourself a favor and check it out. I LOVE IT) and one of her first sentences was something I have been thinking about for a long time (she says it better, of course):

"So this, I believe, is the central question upon which all creative living hinges: Do you have the courage to bring forth the treasures that are hidden within you?"

Wow. Right? I mean, that does take an ENORMOUS amount of courage. It takes courage just to find it and recognize it within yourself. But to bring it out for others to see??? That's next-level courage.

Finding Your Courage

I was recently participating in a discussion with a group of both men and women and one of the members, a woman who has been through significant trauma...I just can't stop thinking about her.

Throughout our group conversations, you could see the pain and struggle she's experiencing. But for some reason...I just felt like there was something more to her. I felt like she was going to have a colossal gift to give maybe one person, maybe thousands, if she chose to see it.

I felt like once she made it over the mountain of trauma...she would be such a gift, if she chose to be. Like, I felt it in my bones. I almost cried later when I shared that thought with her. I'm almost crying now as I type this. But I. JUST. KNOW.

The problem is that it's not up to me to decide that she has a gift to give; it's entirely up to her. And "bringing for the treasures that are hidden within" - especially when they are born of struggle and grief - is beyond scary. 

It requires an act of will stronger than many of us have ever chosen to experience. It requires being vulnerable and putting yourself out there, often when you feel least capable of doing it. But often the result, the outcome of creating a purpose out of what feels like life's carnage, is not only helpful to the recipient...it's life-changing for the giver as well.

And here's the real catch - and I've used this word over and over again throughout this blog - IT IS A CHOICE. You don't have to do it. You don't have to recognize the gift that you now have to give just by you being you. And the truth is that it does take a lot of work.

But I wish I could describe just how freeing it is to be in that moment of giving; to be so utterly yourself and to have even one person say, "Thank you for being you." 

And eventually what took so much courage just becomes this wonderful habit and a new way of living. Because you start going through difficult times not totally concentrated on the struggle but thinking, "How can I use this to help myself? How can I take this moment and help another someday?"

Your struggle then becomes your purpose and your purpose becomes your gift.

Faith May Not Be What You Think It Is

So, I'm really open you'll expand your thoughts about what faith means on this one. I realize that many could read the above quote and think I'm coming from a religious place, but this quote actually means SO MUCH MORE to me.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I did come across this quote during a class I've decided to take at church. Going to church has become extremely important to my oldest daughter and in an effort to support her, I go with her every Sunday.

And I've liked it, for the most part. I was a church-goer when Brad was alive because he was a very devout Presbyterian. After he died, I had a hard time going - not because I was angry but because I just couldn't sit still.

I've felt guilty about it because it was so important to him. So about 8 years later I tried taking the kids again. Their reluctance along with my feeling that I didn't belong eventually led to us sleeping in on Sunday mornings.

The church that my daughter started going to recently offered a class that is designed to answer questions people might have about God - whether you doubt, you want a deeper connection, or you just want to meet new people. This last year or so, I've found myself in a very "seeking" stage in my life. So, I signed up.

The first session was this morning and it was HEAVY. I didn't expect that. But now that I think about it - it makes sense. After all, if you're a doubter that probably means that something happened along the way that made you doubt - and that something could be some sort of trauma.

So, that's the backstory on this quote. I went to the class, got the workbook, came home and opened it up to this page. And while in the context of the book it's probably considered religious, that's not how I interpreted it.

FAITH as I know it

I've had a lot of questions over the years about how to "get through" widowhood and I know that everyone reading this is in their own individual space. And while I will be "getting through" widowhood for the rest of my life, I have come to have faith in the process.

Because I have faith in myself.

I will never fully understand why my husband died. But what I do understand is that that event has led me down a very meaningful and life-changing path - BECAUSE I CHOSE TO LET IT.

Since then, I am very aware of the events in my life as they're happening and recognizing in the moment that I don't fully understand the "why," but I have faith that it will make sense or come together as part of my personal puzzle. 

That's because I'm looking for it.

Years ago, when I was so plagued with anxiety I could barely leave my house, I remember my therapist asking me, "Do you understand why this is necessary?"

I immediately answered, "Yes."

That time in my life was so unbearable, but even in the moment I had faith that I needed it in some way; that some day, maybe even years later, that process was necessary.

Now, ideally, I would have rather had the self-awakening that I've had and still have my husband by my side and not be on anti-anxiety medication. But that didn't happen. The best I can do is take the situation and do something with it, whether it's on a larger scale or just being able to sit down with a friend and have a cup of coffee and understand her pain.

Making sense of it

"Making sense in reverse" is not something that just happens. It is something that takes a LOT of effort and self-reflection for each of us. But I think that's the ONE PIECE that makes the difference between unbearable grief and meaningful grief.

It's not looking back and always answering that "why" question; it's reflecting and thinking about what has happened, having a moment of peace with it, and then determining what you will do with it.

How has it changed you?

Is there a purpose behind it?

Where do you go from there?

So, while each person might take something different from this quote and define "faith" in their own way, I believe that faith is entirely about YOU. You are the faith you have in yourself. And if it helps to believe that God is assisting you, I get it. 

But on the other hand...He couldn't do it without you.

I'm Choosing to Live the Unlived Life

I was recently listening to Oprah's interview with Steven Pressfield about his book The War of Art and that prompted me to write an article for my business about his quote: "Put your ass where your heart wants to be."

In other words, show up.

Love it.

I was looking online for the exact quote to use for the article and another one caught my eye.

And that one made me stop.

In the widow community, one of the main questions we struggle with is how to move forward, move on, move somewhere (however you like to put it). Grief is a scary place and WE. WANT. OUT. I think that's the main reason we seek others to help us with our grief and find others who seem to have made it out the other side. We want proof that it's possible.

Whether you've lost a spouse or not, there's always a life unlived within us. There's always a path we didn't take, a choice that shaped who we are. Loss or not, that is something we all share.

I feel like the loss of my husband awakened things within me that I had no idea were there. Sure, in the beginning everything was too blurry to see the forest for the trees. But as things began to clear and my mind started working again, I realized there was more to me than this loss. Actually, there was more to me than just being his wife, which was something I was content to be before he died.

Even as I drove home from the hospital, suddenly involuntarily single, I KNEW my life wasn't going to center around this loss. Granted, it's taken me a lot longer than I had hoped to really get my life and be at peace with it (and that doesn't mean I don't have nights when I still cry myself to sleep). But the outcome has been more than I hoped for 12 years ago.

I'm living a fulfilling life that I might not have lived had things been different.

I'm not saying that widowhood is something I enjoy. Far from it. But it was so jarring and made EVERYTHING so completely different that I had not choice but to change.

Where I could take control was how I was going to change.

I'm living what could have been the unlived life. I'm AWAKE because of this tragedy. But that was something I chose to be and every day I think about who I could have been if I'd made a different choice.

I'm ready to live the unlived life I know is within me.

My Darkest Moments and A Battle Won

I just posted this image on Facebook and I have to admit that I just posted it because I loved the part about never letting anyone see your darkest moments. That really spoke to me.

The funny thing is that I posted it because I liked it, but in the last few hours I've realized how much it actually DOES apply to me right now.

I know you might think this little celebration I'm quietly having sounds ridiculous, but if you lived in my head you'd know how truly significant it is. I just got back from taking the kids to Disneyland and Universal Studios, a trip that I surprised them with on Christmas morning. I'm tired of giving my kids stuff just to give them stuff and I'd rather give us all an experience that we can share.

About two months ago I went into a travel agency to book the trip. I really wanted to do it over their winter break from school so it wouldn't be like, "Merry Christmas! Here's your present. We're going on a trip in 6 months." I wanted to do it pretty quickly after they opened the present.

Now, some of you have been on this journey with me long enough to remember that when my book was published in 2014, I suffered from crippling anxiety - the kind that just about had me housebound. I couldn't go to the movies, go to a restaurant, sitting in traffic was terrifying to me...basically anything that made me feel remotely trapped made me lose my breath, get so dizzy I could barely stand, and generally made me feel like I was going to have a heart attack and throw up at the same time.

Classic panic disorder.

I still have some problems flying, which I'm working on, and sitting in the middle of a crowded theater is something I still dread. I'm probably the only person who was lucky enough to score tickets to Hamilton who actually regretted going.

So, I didn't realize how booking a trip to Disneyland over the New Year would be so monumental.

Stupid, right? I mean, I was excited that we would be ringing in the New Year at the foot of the Disney castle - why didn't it occur to me that a million other people would have the same idea?

I had a few moments at the beginning of the day on New Year's Eve when I didn't feel great, but I worked through it. But at about 3 PM as I was standing in line for a ride and heard someone say that the part was AT CAPACITY, I realized that I had overcome a major hurtle.

Me - this woman who couldn't even sit and sit across from someone at a table in a crowded restaurant because she felt like she would start screaming - was standing in the middle of an hour-long line for a fast-moving ride in a park that was so full you could barely move.

Me. I did that.

Four years ago, I truly thought my life was over. Really. That realization was almost worse than the panic attacks. I suddenly saw the future I thought I was going to have - traveling, going to the theater, being out with friends, having a meaningful career - go away and a solitary future sitting in a home that I was scared to leave was what I thought I was going to be left with.

Right now, I'm typing this completely exhausted, but elated. I did something that five years ago I thought I would never be able to do. I faced all of these enormous fears I've had for years and I'm okay. I even texted my therapist midway and said, "I think Disneyland is the ultimate immersion therapy. I can't believe all that I've accomplished in the last few days."

So, like the quote says, I've got this. And maybe no one will truly know how important all of this has been for me because I haven't let them see me in my darkest moments. But that's okay.

I'm winning the battle anyway.