I didn’t sign up for this identity, and I certainly wasn’t prepared. One day I was a wife and the next, I was a woman, alone and scared, holding the pieces of my life that I did not know what to do with. There’s no crash course for being the one left behind. Since loosing my husband, I’ve become someone else, someone who edits their emotions in public. The thing about grief is its heavily judged, people get curious, but they cant deal with the raw pain when its in front of them. It’s more like surviving a public shootout — I got hit, the wound is deep, and somehow I’m still expected to go about my day like nothing happened. So I cover it up. Wrap it tight. Hoping no one notices. Hoping it clots. Hoping it doesn’t stain everything.

He died, and I didn’t get a final say. I didn’t get to fix things, scream, or bargain. I just got the leftovers — of a life, of a marriage, of a man I loved and fought with in equal measure. He gets to be remembered and missed and I get to “figure it out.” How unfair is that.

No, I’m not okay if you are asking. But I’m also not entirely broken. I live with this grief, guilt and loss but I still have work to do, things to build, and maybe a few things to burn down.
I’m not looking for silver linings. I’m just trying to get through the day without punching a wall or romanticizing the past too much.
And if you think this sounds cold — well, it’s warmer than silence.