Blog

Can I ask you something?

After loss, what were the what ifs that kept replaying in your mind?

There were a lot of what ifs in my journey.

What if I had noticed something sooner?
What if I had said something different that day?
What if I had pushed harder for them to see a doctor?
What if I had just done one thing differently?
What if I had called that day?
What if I had stopped by?

Grief has a way of turning your mind into a courtroom where every decision suddenly feels like evidence. You replay moments over and over, wondering if one small choice could have changed everything.

And honestly, I have yet to meet someone who hasn’t had at least one.

Because even in everyday life, aren’t there regrets?

We regret not waking up earlier when we’re late for work.
We regret decisions as small as what to wear or what to eat.
We go down that familiar road of I should have… I could have… I would have…

Sometimes we even wish for a redo.

A chance to do something over.
To make a different choice and hope for a different outcome.

Because regret is part of being human.

But the regrets that show up after loss?

Those can be overwhelming.

After my husband passed, my mind replayed that morning over and over again. If you’ve lived through loss, you may recognize that feeling — the mind going back through moments again and again, searching for something you might have missed.

What if I had stayed up longer?
Would I have noticed something sooner?

Probably not.

What if I had pushed harder for him to go to the doctor?

Would the outcome have been different?

Maybe.
Maybe not.

My mind filled with every possible scenario where one small decision might have changed everything.

And I was hard on myself.

Really hard.

For a long time, I carried the weight of those questions as if the answers were mine to control.

Looking back now, I realize something.

And I later learned that this isn’t just something I experienced — it’s something many grieving minds do.

Grief writer Megan Devine explains it this way:

“The mind looks for causes because it believes that if it can find the cause, it can prevent the pain from happening again.”

Grief expert David Kessler has also spoken about how the mind searches for meaning after loss, trying to understand what happened and why.

In other words, those what ifs are often the mind’s attempt to restore order to something that shattered it.

And if you’ve had those thoughts too, I want you to hear this clearly.

If you’ve ever asked yourself, “what if,” this part matters.

When someone we love dies, our minds do what minds naturally do — they try to make sense of something that feels impossible to accept.

And learning that helped me begin loosening the grip those questions had on me.

Everything I did that morning was everything I had in me to give.

I was meticulous in his care.
I asked the right questions.
I stood by his side the best way I knew how.

Could a nurse have noticed something different?

Maybe.

But I wasn’t a nurse. I was a wife.

And at some point, I had to learn to give myself grace.

Soon I realized I had begun to give myself grace.

Grace.

Grace for the woman who did the best she could with what she knew at the time.
Grace for the decisions made in moments none of us are prepared for.
Grace for the questions that may never have answers.

And sometimes that grace shows up in the smallest, unexpected ways.

Every time I hear an ambulance now, my mind still goes back to that day — to the moments when nothing we did seemed to work.

But instead of staying in that moment, I say a quiet prayer for the person inside.

I pray their story ends differently than mine.

In a way, it feels like praying forward — hoping that someone else will be given more time, hopefully a different ending.

That small prayer has become a way of giving hope to someone else. And strangely enough, it helps me embrace the grace I’ve given myself.

A Moment to Reflect

Before you move on, sit with this for a moment.

Have you ever found yourself trapped in the what ifs after a loss?

What helped you begin letting go of those questions?

If something helped steady you, consider sharing it. Someone else walking this road might need to hear it too.

I am here beside you.

There are titles no one prepares you for.

Widow.
Widower.
The one who lost.

And let’s be honest — those words don’t just describe something that happened. They change how people look at you.

I remember sitting in church one February while they announced a romantic Valentine’s event for husbands and wives. Special dinner. Candlelight. A beautiful night for couples.

And I sat there thinking,

I used to be a wife.

Used to.

That word hit harder than I expected.

Widow.

I hated it.

Not because it wasn’t true — but because it felt like loneliness wrapped in a label. It felt like something was missing, and now I had to walk around wearing the proof of it.

And then there are the forms.

Married.
Single.
Widowed.
Other.

What’s the difference?

Honestly.

If I check “single,” does that suddenly erase the fact that I buried my husband?

If I check “widow,” what exactly does that change for you?

Sometimes I checked “other.”

If someone asked, I’d say, “It’s complicated.”

And yes, I got the looks.

Sometimes it made me laugh.
Other times I was irritated as hell.

But I stood my ground.

Because I wasn’t denying my loss.

I just refused to let a box define me.

And that identity shift doesn’t only happen with spouses.

When my mother passed, I didn’t just lose my mom. I lost the role I had been living in.

As one of her caregivers, my days revolved around her care and her well-being.

When she died, something shifted again.

I am still a daughter — I have a father.

But being a daughter to a mother… that changed.

Mother’s Day hits differently now.

After my mom’s funeral, I watched my sister-in-law take pictures with her mom. I remember that ache in my stomach thinking,

She has a mom. I don’t.

She can call her mother tomorrow. I can’t.

There was envy in that moment. I didn’t like it. But I didn’t deny it either. I said a quiet prayer and asked God to give her that moment for as long as possible.

Because I would never wish this on anyone.

When you lose someone, the world hands you a new identity whether you’re ready or not.

And if you’re not careful, you start living inside it.

This is where I need you to really hear me.

Grief doesn’t announce when it becomes your identity.

It just starts taking over the room.

You introduce yourself through what you lost.

Every story circles back to the absence.
Joy feels disloyal.
Growth feels suspicious.
You shrink so no one expects too much from you.
You resist imagining a future because the past feels safer.

And sometimes — if we’re being honest — grief feels easier than becoming again.

It explains the exhaustion.
It justifies the stillness.
It gives you something solid to hold when everything else feels uncertain.

You accept the shadow because at least it explains why you’re different.

So you cling to it.

Not because you want to stay broken —
but because at least it makes sense.

And listen — you do not have to rush yourself out of grief.

You don’t have to pretend you’re strong.
You don’t have to “move on.”
You don’t have to strip the title away overnight.

But you do need to recognize when you’ve started wearing it like a permanent name tag.

There is a difference between carrying grief and becoming it.

Carrying grief means you feel it when it rises.
You honor what you lost.
You allow the memories to sit beside you.

Becoming grief means you stop seeing yourself outside of it.

If “widow” feels bigger than “woman”…
If “bereaved parent” feels louder than your own name…
If “the one who lost” is the only story you tell about yourself…

Pause.

That’s not weakness.

That’s the moment you decide whether you’re going to stay there.

And this is where I step slightly in front of you for a moment — just enough to help you keep moving forward.

There will come a moment — maybe quiet, maybe stubborn — where you will have to say:

Get up.

Not because you’re over it.
Not because it doesn’t hurt.

But because you are still here.

Put your feet on the floor.
Take one step.
Then another.

Slow if you need to.
Pause if you must.
Cry while you’re doing it.

You don’t have to rush yourself.
You don’t have to strip the title away.

But you also don’t have to live inside it forever.

You can honor who you lost without dissolving who you are.

But don’t stay stuck on purpose.

Grief can walk with you.
It can sit beside you.
It can lean heavy on your shoulders some days.

But it does not get to decide where your life ends.

You are still breathing.
Still thinking.
Still capable of building something.

The tears will soften.
The weight will shift.
Laughter will return — sometimes when you least expect it.

I don’t believe in a finish line called “fully healed.”

But I do believe this:

You can live with grief in the same space as love.
You can carry it without letting it consume you.
You can honor what you lost without erasing who you are.

You are not just someone who lost.

You are still you.

And as long as you are here — you can move.

One step.
Then another.

Before you move on, sit with this for a moment.

Have you ever felt grief trying to become your identity?

How did you recognize it?

And what helped you keep moving — even when it was hard?

If something helped steady you along the way, share it. Someone else walking this road might need to hear it too.

I am here beside you.

“Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.”
— Vicki Harrison

Grief triggers are unexpected.

The first time you catch a familiar scent can bring a flood of tears.
A favorite song playing on the radio can stop you in your tracks.
A random memory can rise up without warning and take the air out of your lungs.

Some people are able to sit in those moments. They ride the wave of emotion when a trigger comes.

But that wasn’t me.

I remember the first time his song came on the radio. I quickly turned it off. I shut down anything that threatened to bring tears to my eyes. I wasn’t able to just feel my emotions or lean into them. It hurt too much.

Every time a familiar song started to play… I turned it off.
Every time a familiar smell filled the air… I retreated.
Even random memories were not welcome in my mind.

I even remember the first time I came home from the hospital. I took down every photo of us and placed them behind the sofa or in the back of the closet. In my mind, it was the only way to survive. If I didn’t see it, if I didn’t remember it, it couldn’t hurt me.

Yeah… that didn’t work quite the way I thought it would.

For a long time, remembering felt more like reopening a wound than honoring a life. Music, memories, even small reminders felt unbearable — so I avoided them whenever I could.

When Something Began to Shift

Until one day, something shifted.

I found myself remembering a trip we took to San Francisco. We were out touring the city and decided we had to ride one of the famous trolleys. You can’t go to San Francisco and not ride a trolley.

It was so crowded. And he was a big man. Seeing him squeezed in, surrounded by people, trying to stay balanced while the trolley moved — it was so funny. I don’t even know why it struck me so much in that moment, but when we got off, we both burst out laughing. The kind of laughing where you’re holding your stomach and can’t catch your breath while people walked past staring.

It was such a simple moment.
Such an ordinary moment.
But remembering it didn’t break me.

It warmed me.

For the first time, a memory didn’t just remind me of what I lost. It reminded me of what we had.

And I realized something important:

People can only know him through the memories I share.

Through my stories.
Through my voice.
Through my eyes.

Even though he isn’t physically here, he still lives in the moments I carry and the stories I allow myself to tell. Sharing those memories made me feel close to him again — not just in pain, but in love.

If You’re Not There Yet

If you can’t lean into triggers right now… that’s okay.
If the tears feel too big, the ache too sharp, the memories too heavy… don’t be hard on yourself.

In time — and only in your own time — those same memories that once knocked the wind out of you may begin to feel different. The tightness in your stomach. The sting of tears. They don’t disappear, but they can soften. They can begin to carry warmth alongside the ache.

If you feel able, I would love for you to share a memory of the person you lost. It is through your voice and your eyes that we get to see them as you did.

Even a small moment. Even a simple story. Those memories matter, and so does the love they carry.

And that is a beautiful way love continues.

However your grief shows up today, I am here beside you.
— Deneen

#HereBesideYou