December 22, 2025
When my husband died, I died too. Not in the same sense, of course, but the life and love I had known for 52 years were gone in an instant. I was lost. I didn’t know what to do or how to go on without him. And yet I did, whether I wanted to or not.
Those first days were surreal. I didn’t know what to do with myself, and I couldn’t get away from the pain. Even brief distractions only reminded me of what I had lost.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Then the firsts began. The first Thanksgiving without him. The first Christmas without him. His first birthday in Heaven.
I had sweet memories of our lives together and returned to them often, picturing where we were and what we were doing. Sometimes, they were how I soothed myself to sleep.
I thought the second year might ease a little. It did in some respects, but there were the seconds — second-year celebrations marked by the empty chair at the table and his recliner no one would sit in.
During this time I stopped doing so many things that had once been enjoyable for me. Carl and I had a multipurpose basement that was part storage and part recreation. His computer sat in one side of the basement, and my paper crafting area sat in the opposite side. He used to go downstairs and peruse social media while I made greeting cards and other paper crafts. When he died, I lost all interest in paper crafting.
It was during the summer of the third year that I had a sudden revelation that shocked me. I realized that I had been suffering a quiet depression — quiet because it didn’t look dramatic or urgent. It consisted mostly of apathy. I lost interest in nearly everything in my life except my children. I gave up my driver’s license for several reasons and stopped going out except for doctor visits and food.
Looking back, I can see that the holidays during this third year were still hard — but they landed somewhat softer. His birthday still lies ahead. I haven’t forgotten him. I never will.
Once I realized that, things began to change. I had been in coasting mode with my health, so I took charge of it and made improvements that needed to happen.
It was also during this time that I rediscovered my love for writing. I wanted to start a blog, and what you see here is the result of that.
As they always do, the holidays came around again. I opted not to spend time with my family for Thanksgiving this year. I treated myself gently and spent the day in bed, not from depression, but as a kindness to myself to rest and recharge. I woke up that afternoon feeling good, really good, for the first time in years. I don’t know where it came from, only that it felt like part of my healing — and I was grateful for it.
Through My Eyes, Gently 