I Watched Videos of Myself Falling Apart

A Personal Reflection On Grief, Survival, and Hope

When Grief Felt Like I Was Losing My Way

If I could sit beside the woman I was a couple of years ago, I would tell her that she won’t always feel so shattered. There is hope that she can live a life that she can feel good about again and that she gets to make a choice about who she wants to be for the remainder of her life.

I remember laying in bed for many nights after Kevin died, and I had recorded my thoughts and feelings. When I go back and watch the videos, I see a woman steeped in pain, lost, confused and afraid of what comes next. I had no idea of my next step or how to take it. I wasn’t even sure if there was a next step because I felt surrounded by dense fog where I could hardly see the next minute in front of me.

There were nights I would just lie there staring at the ceiling, feeling so numb, like I was still alive but my life was moving in slow motion. My chest felt heavy, like every breath was an effort. My eyes were constantly red, puffy and burning from the tears, and I think I went through an entire roll of toilet paper from blowing my nose.

What made it even harder was that the world kept moving. People expected answers, decisions, and strength I simply couldn’t access at the time. Most people didn’t see that version of me. They saw me functioning on the outside, but not the woman falling apart in private.

People often talk about grief as sadness, but for me it also felt like disorientation. It seemed like every day I woke up in a life I no longer recognized and was somehow expected to know how to live it. It felt like I was watching a movie about my life that just couldn’t be real. There is no way that my husband could have died because he was strong and wise and such a good man. Other women’s husbands passed, but not mine. It was surreal, and it took some time to actually truly believe, or more accurately accept, the truth.

The Turning Point

I had hope for Kevin’s healing throughout his illness, and even after he passed, I thought God might show His amazing glory and bring him back to me as he had resurrected Lazarus. When that didn’t happen, I didn’t know what else I had to hold onto except hope that my life could one day feel good to me again. I had to learn that God not answering the way I hoped didn’t mean He wasn’t still good or present.

That hope turned into comfort in the fact that God is a “defender of widows” (Psalm 68:5) and that He holds us close to his heart. I also shifted my focus to my belief that I will again be reunited with Kevin on the new earth. So what I had to do is figure out how to live out the remainder of my life here without him.

I had to decide who I wanted to be; a sad, lonely person just surviving the day without joy or a hopeful, joyful person making the best of the life I have left so I can honor both God and Kevin. I chose the latter. All that was left was to do the work.

Healing felt hard, especially because everything in the house reminded me of Kevin. I saw his belongings and his empty chair at the table. I missed his compliments and massages and calling me “hon”. My kids’ grief intensified all of my emotions. Healing was an uphill battle, but I knew that God still had me here for a reason, and I was determined to fulfill His mission for me.

There wasn’t one dramatic moment when everything changed, but there came a point where I realized I couldn’t stay in that place forever. I knew, on some level, that I needed to keep living–for me, for my family, for Kevin.

Little by little, the fog lifted. I received coaching, spent more time in the Word, cherished every moment with my family and made helping other widows rebuild their life my bedrock.

When I made those recordings, I felt so small and helpless, but now when I watch them, I don’t see weakness or victim hood. I see that I had a hidden strength I just wasn’t really aware of at the time. It was the strength that I could only receive from the Father, and it was there all along. Amidst the confusion and fear was little bits of light showing me the way out. All I had to do was follow the path God laid out for me.

The Fog Lifted, and Hope Lit the Path

I’m still on that path, though I’ve veered off on occasion. I’m still finding my way, learning, growing, sharing and helping, all in an effort to glorify God in the way He deserves.

If I could speak to that woman of 2-1/2 years ago sobbing in bed, recording through the tears, I would tell her that she doesn’t have to figure out the rest of her life today. She only needs to take the next breath… then the next step when she’s ready, because even though she can’t see it yet, the fog will not always be this thick. Life won’t always feel like this.

Truthfully, there were days when I didn’t even believe it myself. Even now, when I look back, I can see that there was always a path forward. I just couldn’t see it at the time. I had received the gift of perseverance, and with that, I kept going in the smallest ways that I could.

Life will never be the same, and I still carry that truth every day, but it also didn’t end in that lonely bed, in that fog, where I thought I was completely lost. Change doesn’t mean your life can’t still hold purpose, peace, laughter, and even joy again. You have survived one of the most painful experiences of your life. You have made it to where you are today. That is resilience, even if you’re not where you want to be yet. Just take the next breath, then the next step when you’re ready.

Somehow, I’m still here and still learning how to live. I hold that same hope for you.

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