Tag: love

Posted in widow

Seriously, you’re still here?

Posted on by Widow with wings

It is the middle of August 2026…I just reread my last post, which was my manifesto for the year. And what I hear in those words is my desire and desperation to be healed and out of survival mode.

I want it so badly. I want a life again. I want to feel happy again. I want to know who that person is looking back at me in the mirror.

I haven’t written since that day, or completed the series I had hoped to create, because that’s grief. That’s the healing journey I get to be on. It just doesn’t go the way I think it is supposed to go.

I seem to think that if I say it out loud, or in this case write it publicly, that somehow it will manifest in my life and become my truth. Like maybe putting the words out into the world will finally make them real. But then I get sucked right back into my life and my unconscious pain and trauma – the things I have internalized for the past 11 years, and the fears that have slowly grown into the normalcy of my everyday life.

This is what has a hold of me. These are the patterns of my life since Pat died; really, since Pat first got sick. I have been lost in this haze for so long that I don’t know how to find my way out anymore. It has become just the way it is. And I am ashamed to say that I think, in some ways, I have become comfortable in all of it.

Comfortable in the sense that I am terrified of stepping out of it – not that I enjoy it. Because there is nothing I want more than to have a life again and feel like me again.

I hate saying that out loud because it is embarrassing that I am still trying to figure this out after all this time. Eleven years feels like I should know better. Like I should have figured something out by now. Like I should be further along.

But the truth is…I’m not.

In many ways, life is good. Especially from the outside and at surface level. I get by. I’m doing okay. But there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t want more. I go round and round in my head and battle myself and my thoughts about how to get unstuck. But I am truly at a loss on how to do it.

People look at me and see someone who is doing good. She has a job. A house. Three healthy boys. I keep up on my bills. I have a boyfriend. I am out and about. I show up. I function. It looks pretty normal to the outside world. But on the inside, I am so lost and confused and unsure of everything.

I am not happy in my place in this world. I don’t like how my life is going, or where I am at. I know there is more to life, and I want more, but I am also afraid to do anything about it. I feel like if I set down even one of the million balls that I have in the air at one time, everything will come crashing down around me.

So I just keep juggling them all.

Even though they aren’t working for me anymore. I don’t even know what I am truly afraid of… I am afraid of losing everything again I guess – my hopes, my dreams, my goals. Maybe that’s why I don’t really have them anymore. I wish for them, but deep down I don’t think it’s honestly going to happen for me. It only happens for other people…not me.

Pathetic as I say that. But it is the truth. I don’t really understand what I am doing anymore. And when I say anymore, I mean the last decade of my life. So much time I have wasted just going through the motions. When Pat first died, I literally did just go through the motions to keep things afloat. I didn’t know any other way to survive. There were kids who needed me. There was a life that somehow had to keep moving even though mine had completely stopped.

Going through the motions saved me then. But as time passed, I just became comfortable with it all. It started to feel safer to keep going through the motions and not risk anything. Don’t hope too much. Don’t dream too big. Don’t want too much. Don’t put too much on the line because I already know what it feels like to lose everything I thought my life was going to be.

And maybe somewhere along the way, surviving stopped being something I was doing and became the way I was living. And it has led me right here, right now. And I honestly feel awful.

I was working with a student yesterday who was struggling with worrying about things so far down the road that she had no control over at this time. She was so paralyzed by the fear of what was to come that she couldn’t even enjoy the day she was actually living.

I listened to myself as I was telling her to go home and let herself feel how awful she was feeling. Cry. Scream. Punch a pillow. Do whatever it took to feel her pain. And then get up today and say, “OK. Enough. I’m done.” And start taking the steps needed to help herself. And when I heard those words coming out of my mouth, I knew I was talking to myself.

Nobody is coming to save me. I have to save myself. I am the one in control of my future, my opportunities and my path in life. I have to focus the same amount of attention and love and compassion that I give everyone else onto me. It has to be about me at this point or I am just going to disappear.

I have always said Pat’s illness wasn’t about me. After his death, it was about the kids, not me. I had to take care of them in those moments. They needed me, and I needed to make sure they survived something no child should ever have had to survive. But now…Now is different. I am losing myself. And it has to be about me. I have to take a step out of this grief comfort zone and step back into the world.

I honestly believed that at 11 years out from Pat’s death, I would be in a much different place in my life. I never thought grief would have become a friend who has overstayed their welcome. And lately I find myself looking at grief like that friend who somehow never got the hint that it was time to leave.

Seriously, you’re still here?

After all these years. After everything I have done to keep moving. After raising the boys and working and loving and laughing and traveling and showing up day after day. You’re still here. And of course you are. Because grief doesn’t leave just because enough years have passed. It doesn’t pack its bags because everyone else thinks we should be okay by now. It changes. It gets quieter. It hides in different places. Sometimes it sits quietly in the corner and lets me live, and sometimes I turn around and realize it has taken over the entire room again.

I know grief will always be a part of my life. I know there will never be a version of me that doesn’t carry Pat, his illness, his death and everything that came after it. But I have to find a smaller place for grief to stay within me before it consumes me whole.

It can live here. It just can’t be allowed to take up the whole house anymore.

As you can tell, I don’t really have any answers. I am starting to think there really aren’t any answers when it comes to grief and healing. Maybe that is something I have been getting wrong all along. Maybe healing isn’t finally reaching some magical place where everything makes sense and I suddenly feel like myself again. Maybe there isn’t a finish line. Maybe we are all just floundering, doing our best to navigate this new world that was handed to us without a manual or directions of any sort. Maybe some days we move forward and some days we fall right back into the places we thought we had already left behind.

And maybe that doesn’t mean we failed. Maybe it just means this is hard.

So I am going to try yet again. Not because I suddenly have it figured out. Not because writing this means tomorrow morning I am going to wake up healed, fearless and ready to take on the world. I know myself better than that. I am simply making the statement, yet again, that I am going to start finding a baby step out of this uncomfortable comfort that I have been living in.

One baby step…And then maybe another.

I don’t know where they will lead me. I don’t know what my life is supposed to look like from here. I don’t even really know who I am trying to become. I just know I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left merely surviving a life that I am still here to live.

So I am saying it again – I am going to find my way.

And if you are reading this and any part of you is thinking, Seriously, you’re still here too? whether you’re talking to your grief, your trauma, your fear, your survival mode, or the version of yourself you thought you would have left behind by now, maybe this is your sign too.

Maybe that’s how we find our way out of this uncomfortable comfort we have been living in. Not all at once. Not without fear. Not without grief.

Just one baby step at a time. So if you’re here too, take one with me…

What is your baby step going to be?

Posted in grief, healing, rediscovery, widow

My 2026 Manifesto:

Posted on by Widow with wings

The Beginning of a New Chapter

This post is the start of something new for me.

Not a polished “after” story. Not a how-to on healing. But a real-time series about rebuilding a life after loss…learning how to live again, rediscover who I am now, and choosing myself without guilt. If you’re a widow, someone starting over, or anyone who feels behind in life, this space is for you. So here it goes…

My 2026 Manifesto

I’ve spent a decade feeling like my life didn’t unfold the way it was supposed to, and I have been bitter about that.

Like I was behind. Like I missed something everyone else seemed to get easily. Like I had to work twice as hard just to feel okay, while other people moved forward without losing what I lost. I have carried sadness, lonliness, bitterness and resentment around for too long.

As I step into 2026, I don’t want to carry that story anymore. This is no longer my truth.

This year, I’m choosing a different way of living. I am choosing to step into the life I deserve to have and the person I am meant to be.

I’m no longer measuring my life by what didn’t work out, what I had to grieve, or how far ahead everyone else appears to be. I’m done shrinking myself to fit timelines that were never built for someone who had to start over. I am done feeling sorry for myself and my circumstances.

In 2026, I stop asking what’s wrong with me and start honoring what I’ve survived and all that I have overcome.

I’m releasing the shame I’ve been carrying for how I am, how I feel, and how long healing has taken. Nothing is embarrassing about rebuilding a life after it breaks. There is nothing weak about wanting more than survival. It is time. Enough is enough.

This is the year I stop chasing people and things who don’t choose me and weren’t meant for me.
I stop explaining myself to people who aren’t listening.
I stop proving my worth in hopes of being loved, understood, or included.

Instead, I am choosing peace over performance.
Consistency over chaos.
Self-respect over comfort.

I’m learning that bitterness isn’t something you force yourself to drop but instead it softens when your life begins to feel fuller. I won’t shame myself for noticing how unfair things have been. But I won’t let resentment steal my future anymore either. It is time to step out of the shadows I have been living in and step into what is next.

So, 2026 is about rediscovering who I am now.

Not who I was before everything changed.

Not who I had to be to raise my boys alone.
Not who people expect me to be.
But the woman standing here: wiser, softer, stronger, still becoming.

This year, I commit to caring for my body instead of criticizing it. I move because it helps me feel alive. I rest without guilt. I create because it keeps me connected to myself. I say yes to connection and no to emotional crumbs. I allow joy without apologizing for it. I allow myself to make mistakes, take chances and grow into the person I am meant to be,

I let myself be seen…slowly, safely, honestly.

I’m building a life that feels like mine, even if it looks quieter or different than I once imagined. I understand now that happiness isn’t a destination you arrive at one day, no matter how badly I want it to, but rather it’s a series of small, honest choices made again and again. And I am choosing me.

I don’t need to be fully healed to begin.
I don’t need permission to want more.
I don’t need to go back to become whole.

In 2026, I choose myself. Not dramatically, not perfectly, but consistently.

This is my year of becoming.
And this series is where I begin.

So, What’s Coming Next?

In this series, I’ll be sharing:

  • what healing actually looks like after loss
  • how I’m rediscovering who I am now
  • the glow-up that happens quietly, from the inside out
  • navigating loneliness, comparison, and new friendships
  • choosing joy without guilt

If you’re rebuilding, becoming, or beginning again… I’m glad you’re here.

Posted in grief, healing, widow, widowhood

imploding

Posted on by Widow with wings

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about stars.
How they shine, how they burn, how they eventually collapse under the weight of their own gravity.

And strangely… how much I can relate to them.

Because when Pat died, I didn’t just lose someone.
Something inside me imploded – quietly at first, then all at once.
The life I knew folded in on itself, the way a star does when it can no longer hold the pressure that once made it shine.
I don’t recognize myself. I don’t recognize the world. I don’t recognize the version of “me” that used to move through life without thinking.

People don’t talk about the moment after the collapse – not the grief itself, but the aftershocks of it all.
How the light dims.
How the heat changes.
How everything becomes silent and unbearably loud at the same time.

That’s the part no one prepares you for.

But here’s the thing about stars:
When they implode… they also become something else.
Not the version they were before, not the version they tried to hold together, but something new, raw, powerful, and strangely beautiful.

And that’s where I am now.

I’m not the widow standing in the immediate explosion anymore.
I’m not the woman holding her boys and trying to pretend she’s strong while her entire universe collapses around her.
And I’m not the version of myself who lived before the implosion because she doesn’t exist anymore, no matter how hard I try to find her.

Right now, I’m somewhere in that strange, sacred middle. In the inbetween.

The part where the dust is still settling.
The part where the heat still lingers.
The part where pieces of the old me are drifting, rearranging, forming into something I’ve never been before.

It’s uncomfortable.
It’s unfamiliar.
And somehow, even here, there’s a tiny spark of hope.

Because a star doesn’t implode and disappear.
It implodes and becomes something new.
A beginning wrapped inside an ending.
A place where new stars form.

And maybe that’s what this season of widowhood is for me.

Not a rebirth I asked for.
Not a transformation I planned.
But a slow gathering of everything that survived the collapse, my strength, my softness, my hurt, my hope, and letting those pieces create something new.

I still miss the life I had.
I still talk to the person I lost.
I still feel the gravity of what imploded.

But I’m also noticing tiny sparks rising out of the rubble:
A moment of clarity about who I’m becoming.
A sense of direction I haven’t felt in years.
A strength that isn’t forced. It’s just there, quietly, steadily.
A voice inside me that whispers, “Keep going, you’re forming again.”

I’m not “healed,” whatever that means.
But I’m not broken in the same way I was.
I’m something new now. Still glowing, still shifting, still becoming.

A widow, yes.
But also a woman rebuilding her life.

If you’re here too, standing in the remnants, wondering what comes next, just know this:

Implosions aren’t the end.
They’re the beginning of the next version of your light.

And you’re allowed to shine again, even if it looks different than before.
Even if you’re still gathering your pieces.
Even if you don’t feel ready.

New stars take time to form.
And so do we.

Posted in accepting, grief, healing, solo parenting, widow

An Empty Nest

Posted on by Widow with wings

This school year has been the start of so much new in my world.  I left my school I had been working at for almost 10 years to start a new career, but at the last minute received an offer I couldn’t refuse from another school to continue my path as a high school counselor.  Not a new career, but a new school and new environment.  Seamus, my oldest son, has graduated college and is starting his path in life trying to kick start his career in the film industry, moving to Atlanta and making his own way.  Aidan, the youngest, has graduated high school and headed off to college.  Leaving me all alone with the menargery of animals I own, left to figure out what is next.  I didn’t think it would be all that difficult to be living alone, until it happened.  And then I realized I never really lived all alone.  Right after college I basically moved in with Pat and then we were married and then quickly all three boys came along.  Even after Pat died, I still had the boys at home with me, so living on my own is new for me.  And let me tell you it isn’t the logistics of being alone or not having the boys here in my daily routine, it’s the silence that came with it.  And in that silence came everything and every emotion I never took the time or had the time to process or experience when Pat died.  It all came up and I had to deal with it all.  There were alot of emotions…missing the boys, worrying about the boys, trying to find my way in my new job, feeling lonely in the house while i was figuring out yet again another new normal.  But the worst of it all is the grieving that I never did.  The grieivng that I couldn’t do because I had to step up and take care of the boys and our lives and survive for the past ten + years.  It was grieving the loss of me and the life I had and the life I felt I was supposed to have.  I had shoved all that down and just did what I had to do and left all of those emotions behind to be dealt with later.  And so here we are….LATER.  I was not ready for this.  I found myself lost – not the lost of what do i do now that the kids are gone, but lost as in who the hell am I.  Where did this person come from?  What am I doing?  How did my life end up like this?  Why am I where I am?  What am I supposed to do now?…Simple questions to ponder in the stillness and quietness of your home, right?  I spent a lot of time in bed, a lot of time crying, pages and pages of journaling, searching for books on empty nesters as a widow – which don’t exist…yet (stay tuned! :))  I felt like I was right back to the time after Pat died where I snapped out of my daze and started searching for help.  I was falling quickly into despair, not wanting to talk to anyone, do anything, get out of bed or make anymore decisions.  I just wanted to disappear and forget it all.  I know for a mom, when your kids leave the house there is a time period where you have to figure out what you are supposed to do now because all your time and attention had been on the kids.  And I had some of that too, but it was compounded by the work that hadn’t been done or the grace that I hadn’t given myself in the past that rose quickly to the surface.  I didn’t know any other way to get through it than to simply go through it.  

I allowed myself to feel it all. I felt the pain, the sadness, the anger, and the bitterness. I let myself feel sorry for myself until I was almost ready to just throw in the towel and give up. And then that was enough. I started to do some inner work and tried to look at my “Former” life without the rose-tinted glasses on. You see, when we look back and remember what was, we recall all the good; it is romanticized and idealistic, often overshadowing the struggles we faced. But when you step back and look at how life was, and list it out for real, and then make a list of how it is now, and add in what you want it to look like, it was amazing to see that I really am doing great despite everything. I have truly grown and changed, and I have a life—though not fully created just yet, there is a path forward filled with potential and opportunity. Things are growing and moving along, and though I loved my life before, I was a different person then. I needed the opportunity to say goodbye to the girl I was before, to reflect deeply and acknowledge who I had been. I actually wrote her a letter—to the woman I was before he died. That was an extremely therapeutic exercise, a cathartic release that allowed me to articulate feelings I had bottled up for so long. I even found that there were still pieces of that girl inside of me that I had kept pushed down, almost as if to protect her from further hurt. I think it is finally time to remove the armor and let her out again, to embrace the fragments of my past that still resonate with who I am becoming. This act of saying goodbye to what once was has released a great deal of pain and shame I had been carrying around for years, even if it was hidden beneath the surface. It has given me the freedom to start focusing on what I want and who I am now. I now have the chance to see who this new Denise truly is and where she fits in my new normal, which I am creating as I go, piecing together my reality one piece at a time. As scary as it all is, it’s a little bit exciting too. I have been thinking a lot about how I used to do things, back when I was a goal setter… I had dreams and goal markers I wanted to hit, a timeline mapped out with expectations of achievements. But now, I just want to find my peace. I want to discover joy in the little moments, simply finding my way one day at a time. A lot easier said than done, but I am happy to say that this empty nest timeframe, though painful and difficult, has been profoundly transformative for me. I am still at the beginning of this new chapter, brimming with uncertainty but also hope. I know that in the near future, there will be even more life changes—moving, retirement, chapter 2, weddings, and grandbabies. I want to be able to be fully present for all of those moments, to bask in the joy that each new milestone brings. So for me, this season of having an empty nest has been about cleaning out my house, literally and figuratively, which was previously full of pain and sadness, to make room for what is to come, hopefully a fresh start filled with light, laughter, and love.

Posted in accepting, grief, inspiration, motivation, widow

Father’s Day

Posted on by Widow with wings

Another father’s day has come and gone.  This year the boys and I headed out-of-town for some fun times instead of our visit to the cemetery.  The boys keep telling me Daddy’s not really there, but for me the cemetery is my special place with him.  When I really need to have a heIMG_20160619_143628747art to heart with Pat, that’s where I go.  Last year I would go every day.  I couldn’t handle not being with him.  We had never spent more than three days apart from one another until he had gotten sick and I wasn’t going to let that happen.  As time went by I started going less and less.  I could feel him with me everywhere I went and so I don’t need to go to that place in order to be with him.

The kids hate going.  Absolutely hate it.  We went to the cemetery last father’s day and we went for Pat’s birthday and both times were a complete disaster.  The visits focus on the pain that we all feel each and every day.  That’s not what we want to do.  Our feelings of loss don’t go away.  We are very aware of what we no longer have.  Instead we want to carry the memories of Pat with us as we live our lives.  That is how we can carry him with us and he lives on.

So, this year no visit to the cemetery.  Some may say that is terrible.  I see families who spend the day at the cemetary together and I think that is great for them.  But not for us.  We spent the day in the sun, being together, making new memories.  We said Happy Father’s Day to Pat and said a prayer together.  We talked about our favorite memories with him and then we let it be.  We went on with our day.  Yes, he was in our heart and our minds…it doesn’t take a day like Father’s Day to have that happen.  We do that everyday.

I am usually anxious before holidays like this, because I don’t know how the kids are going to handle it.  Typically they are fine, but you never know when soIMG_20160619_143315326.jpgmething is going to trigger one of them.  This year, my boys showed me that they are just like their father…true warriors.  They are strong, and proud and want to live.  Yes they are sad.  Yes they miss their daddy desperately.  But this isn’t the end of their happiness.  They are living forward as well.

They have had to adjust to me as mom and dad.  And I apologize for being a crappy father to them.  It’s out of my realm of knowledge.  But I keep trying.  And when I can’t handle the dad role, I find a friend who can step in and help.  So far so good.  I guess that’s all I can ask for.  Three boys with smiles on their faces loving life in honor of their daddy.

 

Posted in Uncategorized

Amazing Strength + Undying Love = My Husband

Posted on by Widow with wings

hero

As I sit here waiting for the doctors to come in and ease our minds, I watch my husband.  This is a man who has chosen me to love; supported and guided me through tough times; he is the father of my three amazing boys.  I’ve written about the struggles I have been through with his illness, but I never took a moment to address him.

Pat,

I am so proud to be your wife, your friend, your partner.  You is the strongest person I know.  You have fought through this battle with undeniable strength and determination.  You have been through a hell of a lot of shit and have been an amazing warrior through it all.  I couldn’t imagine my life without you and I want to thank you for sharing your life with me.

I will love you ’til the day I die

One thing I have learned from this shitty hand we have been dealt, is that love has no boundaries, and no limits.  My husband has never given up on anything in his life..He is a fighter, a winner, and my hero.