The Messy, Beautiful Truth: I’m Not Drowning

If you walked into my dining room right now, you’d see a snapshot of a life that is—by traditional standards—a bit of a disaster. There are board games, half-finished LEGOs, napkins scattered like confetti, and a precarious tower of takeout sauces from various meals, serving as a makeshift centerpiece. My house isn’t the cleanest. There is dust on the baseboards and a permanent pile of laundry in my laundry room. 

When my husband passed away, I looked at this life and felt certain it would all collapse. I was convinced that grief would be the weight that finally pulled me under. I thought for sure I would fail. I feared I’d lose the home he worked so hard to provide us with, that I’d be unable to keep a job, and that my emotions would become a permanent, unpredictable storm I couldn’t navigate. Most of all, I feared I wouldn’t be enough to raise our son.

But here is the thing about the "mess" on my table: I am not drowning.

For two solid years following his death, I didn't just survive; I showed up. I held down a job, navigated the corporate world through the fog of loss, and when a layoff finally hit, the old version of me would have seen it as the "beginning of the end." Instead, I found a new, better position within a single month of unemployment.

I look around today and realize that the assets we built together are still here. The house is standing, the car is running, and the bills are paid. The stability I thought was tied solely to his presence turned out to be something I was capable of maintaining on my own. It isn't always pretty, and it certainly isn’t perfect, but it is solid.

The greatest proof of my "not drowning" status isn't in my bank account, though—it’s in our son, Liam.

I spent so many nights wondering if I could be both parents, or if the void left behind would be too wide for him to cross. But Liam is thriving. Whether he’s sprinting down the court in rec league basketball, earning his next belt in Taekwondo, or bringing home report cards that make me beam, he is a testament to resilience.

He is kind, sweet, and genuinely my favorite person to be around (with the notable exception of when he’s "hangry"—some things never change). Seeing him grow into such a remarkable human has taught me that while our family structure changed, our foundation didn’t break.

The takeout sauces and the pile of napkins used to bother me. I used to think they were signs of a life spinning out of control. Now, I see them as signs of a life being lived. We are busy. We are playing games. We are choosing a quick meal so we can spend more time talking. And yet, we are afloat and looking forward to the future. 

To my fellow widows or anyone facing a loss they think will break them: You are stronger than your worst-case scenarios. Your house might not be spotless, and your table might be cluttered, but if your heart is beating and your kids are loved, you are winning.

I thought I would lose everything. Instead, I found out just how much I could carry. I will miss him forever, but I can do hard things, and so can you.