goodbye – Menopause & Malarkey

The Grief No One Warns You About

They tell you about grief.
They tell you about missing them.
About the quiet house.
About the first holidays, the anniversaries, the birthdays.
They tell you about tears.

What they don’t tell you is that your body remembers.
Not just their voice.
Not just their laugh.
Your body remembers what it felt like to be held.

And one day, maybe years later, you’ll be fine.
You’ll be functioning. Working. Laughing. Living your life.
And then something small will happen.

A moment of warmth. A memory. A conversation that feels easy.
And suddenly…
Your chest aches.
Your arms feel empty.
And you realize, with a clarity that almost knocks the wind out of you:

You don’t just miss him.
You miss being loved like that.
—
There’s a term for it, I’ve learned.
Attachment grief.
Touch starvation.

Clinical, tidy words for something that feels anything but.
Because there’s nothing clinical about waking up and wishing that someone would wrap his arms around you and say, “I’ve got you.”

There’s nothing tidy about your body remembering a place it used to rest… and not having anywhere for that feeling to go.
—
And here’s the part no one says out loud:
You can have a full life and still feel this ache.

You can have:
family who loves you
friends who show up
a life you’re grateful for
…and still miss the specific, irreplaceable intimacy of being chosen, held, known in that way.
Those things don’t compete.
They coexist.
—
Some days, it hits harder than others.

Some days it looks like tears.
Some days it looks like standing in your kitchen eating comfort food you haven’t made in years.
And some days… it looks like laughing, feeling warm for a moment — and then realizing that warmth has nowhere to land.
—
If you’ve felt this, I want you to hear me:
There is nothing wrong with you.

You are not broken.
You are not “stuck.”
You are not failing to move on.
Your body is remembering something real.
And real love doesn’t just disappear because time has passed.
—
I don’t have a neat ending for this.
No five steps to heal.
No “and then it got better.”
Some days it’s softer.
Some days it’s louder.
But I’m learning this:

A small tan Chihuahua sits on a couch beside a person wrapped in a soft, pastel blanket decorated with otters. A gray throw blanket is draped nearby, and a TV plays in the background, creating a cozy, quiet living room scene. — Sometimes you need a soft otter blanket … and a potato.

Feeling this ache doesn’t mean I’m losing.
It means I loved in a way that left a mark.
And maybe… just maybe…
that same part of me that feels this deeply
is also the part that could feel it again.

Even when hoping for that feels dangerous.
—
Until then…
Some days, we cry.
Some days, we cope with cookie dough ice cream.
And some days, we write about it
so someone else out there knows
they’re not the only one.

Every now and then, this page pauses the laughter long enough to remember why humor matters. Because sometimes joy and sorrow hold hands — and that’s where healing hides.

I’ve been sitting here trying to come up with a clever title for this post.
Grief Is Weird.
Birthdays and Goodbyes.
Life Before…

Before what, exactly?
(Insert exasperated sigh from your brilliant — but tired — blogger.)

To put it bluntly: life before Steve died.

In 2020 — because of course it was the year the world shut down — my husband, Steve, was diagnosed with bladder cancer. That alone is devastating enough. Pair cancer with the pandemic restrictions that determined whether a wife could accompany her terrified husband to doctor appointments or visit him after surgeries, and that devastation becomes insurmountable.

That was our reality from his first ER visit in the early hours of April 24, 2020 — my 50th birthday — until his last breath on February 1, 2023.
To sum up those 1,013 days in one word: exhausting.
Emotionally, mentally, physically, spiritually exhausting.

I’m not here tonight to share those details — not yet.

Today is Steve’s 52nd birthday. It’s one of those “dates to anticipate” when you’re grieving — birthdays, holidays, anniversaries — any occasion that calls for extra celebration. The strange thing about grief, though, is that those dates don’t always hit when you expect them to. But catch me on a random Tuesday, focused on work with zero apparent triggers, and I’m in the restroom blowing my nose and willing myself to pull it together.

Grief is weird.

When I mentioned to friends and colleagues that today is Steve’s birthday, most offered sympathetic nods and kind words. For the first time since life before, I found myself saying, “No, it’s okay — I’m good.”
And I meant it.

It’s not that I don’t miss him. We were married eleven short years, and there was never a doubt we would, as Steve liked to say, go the distance. It wasn’t the first marriage for either of us, but it was the one we finally got right.

I don’t believe we fell in love a little too late.
I believe we fell in love just in time.

Three years ago today, we celebrated his final birthday here on earth. He had just started in-home hospice care — no longer undergoing treatment — but at that point, he felt tired, yet good. We were closing in on goodbye, but we weren’t there yet.

I no longer feel guilty if I don’t cry on his birthday, or Christmas, or our anniversary.
Not because he wouldn’t want me to.
Not because I’ve stopped caring.
Not because I don’t miss him.

The love Steve and I shared built a foundation strong enough to keep carrying me. Our relationship was anchored in faith, grace, laughter, and the choice to love each other every day.

Today, I celebrate Steve’s birthday knowing he’s celebrating with Jesus.
I smile when I picture his giant personality and that contagious grin.

Happy birthday, my love.
My life is sweeter because you loved me,
and Heaven is sweeter because you’re there.

💛 To anyone missing someone today: may your memories feel softer than your grief, and may you find a smile tucked somewhere inside the ache.