Reflections As 5 Years Approaches
- Waiting For True Life
- Sep 17
- 4 min read

September always feels like the beginning of grief season for me. As soon as the leaves start to fall and frost covers the morning grass, my body and mind are transported to the fall when everything fell apart.
This year feels a little different. I’m living in a new house in a new town. No ambulance came down this street. No panicked phone calls have been made from this house. I never watched Greg struggle to walk up these stairs. But whenever I go, grief comes with me.
So many people assume grief goes away over time. I probably assumed that too before Greg died. But I’ve found that it doesn’t go away. It changes overtime just as we do.
Here’s what grief looks like for me these days:
Grief still surprises me
Just when I think I’ve gotten used to an aspect of grief, it catches me off guard. My heart pounds as I walk into spaces filled with couples who don’t know me. I dread the typical get to know you questions (and having recently moved, life is full of them) about family and work that inevitably lead to having to say that my husband died. I think I’ve mastered speaking about my life in vague terms without crying and then someone asks a question and my eyes well up with tears.
Triggers remain
New widows on the news, ambulance sirens screeching past, a person’s story of their time in the ICU… things like these surface memories I haven’t processed yet and my body reacts by feeling like I’m back in it with Greg. In many ways I’ve only begun to process Greg’s death and all the medical stuff that led up to it. Complex grief like mine (that has layers and years of trauma involved) might take a lifetime to sort through. But thanks to fantastic counselors and trauma training, I now have tools that help me cope when triggers arise. I’m learning to stay embodied. I know the signs that panic starting and how to restore a sense of calm. I’m far kinder to myself when I fall apart or can’t seem to calm down because of the fear coursing through my body. I know now what’s going on and that sometimes we have to feel hard things in order to heal.
We’ve grown so much
My son and I are nearly unrecognizable from who we were 5 years ago- at least to me. I can see how much stronger we are, how much kinder we are to ourselves (and each other), and how much grief has shaped us. We’ve done hard things and survived. We’ve adapted to changes: some we didn’t want and others we sought out. We’ve learned to show up in new spaces and carry our story with us. We’ve become wiser about how and when to share our story and we know that sometimes keeping it private is the best choice.
We miss him still
We miss Greg, a lot. We miss his jokes and his hugs. We miss his humor and his big laugh. We miss his wisdom, compassion and steadying presence in our home.
I’m sad that he doesn’t get to see our son grow up. He doesn’t know the boy who is soon to be a young man. I grieve when my son’s dad isn’t cheering him on at a soccer game or celebrating his accomplishments at school. I wish Greg could play with him, hang out with him, watch movies with him, and share advice with him. We miss him today and we will miss him all our tomorrows.
I can see God’s hand
Enough time has passed that I can look back at the years since Greg’s death and see how God carried us. I fear the future less than I used to because I know with my whole being that He will be with me no matter what comes. I’m learning to trust that His heart toward me and my son is good, even when He allows pain and loss beyond what I think we should have to experience.
I don’t have answers to why Greg died or why God wrote this story for us before we were even born - but I do have confidence that He is good and none of Greg’s pain or my sorrow is wasted.
I need my (grieving) people
There are big parts of my experience that only other widows can understand. As time passes and fewer people in my life know my story or knew Greg, I need my community of widows just as much as I did in the early days. There’s something powerful about being with people who “get it”. The particular experiences, thoughts and emotions I have as a widow might be unique to me but they are only shades different than what other widows experience. My widowed friends are a lifeline when waves of grief hit.
We love to talk about Greg
I love talking about Greg and so does my son. Not his death or his heart transplant or any of that painful stuff - we love talking about who he was despite it all. There’s something so freeing about being with people who knew Greg. Laughing about his jokes, hearing stories, imagining his responses to things now … these things make us smile. He was so full of life even as darkness and death lingered close by. It’s a joy to remember and talk about him with people who knew him.
Grief looks very different than it used to and I imagine I’ll look back years from now and say the same. But right now, in this season, this is grief.
Comments