why widows need body-based support | grief impact + natural options

Why widowhood feels so physically hard, and how somatic support can help you carry it

When your husband dies, it isn’t only your heart that breaks.

It’s your whole life that seems to crack open.

Your co-parent.
Your partner in decisions.
Your shared income.
Your witness.
Your future.
Your person who helped you breathe through hard days.

And somehow — impossibly — life keeps moving forward.
Decisions still need to be made.
Questions still get asked.
Systems don’t pause.
And your body is required to keep showing up, even when everything inside has been shattered.

If you’ve ever wondered why widowhood feels so physical — why your body reacts like you’re living in an emergency — there is a reason.

Not a “something is wrong” reason.
A nervous-system that is protecting you reason.

Because grief doesn’t live only in the heart.

It lives in the body that had to survive the loss.

Widowhood Is Grief Under Load

Widowhood isn’t just missing someone.

It’s missing him while still having to:

• make every decision alone

• keep the house running

• carry the parenting weight

• manage money stress

• show up to work

• answer questions you don’t even have words for

• keep going when you don’t feel like you can

So the grief doesn’t “settle.”

It stacks.

And the body responds the way bodies respond when the load is too much for too long.

What Grief Can Feel Like in the Nervous System

During my husband’s cancer journey — including a failed bone marrow transplant — my body learned to brace itself

I lived depleted.

And after he died in 2019, that bracing didn’t dissipate.
The stress didn’t end.
It shifted into a new kind of constant that felt even more heavy laden.

I’ve known:

• uncontrollable hyperventilating

• panic that rises out of nowhere

• night sweats

• sleep that won’t come — or won’t stay

• a nervous system that never fully powers down

If you’ve lived anything like this, I want you to hear this clearly:

This isn’t you being dramatic.
This isn’t you being “too sensitive.”
This isn’t a lack of faith.

This is your body carrying what love and loss demanded.

Bereavement research shows that grief can affect multiple systems at once — stress regulation, immune and inflammatory pathways, sleep cycles, cognition, and autonomic nervous system rhythms (fight/flight and rest/digest).
In other words: grief shows up in the body because you’re human, not because you’re broken.

Why Words Don’t Help — and “Just Relax” Feels Cruel

Some advice sounds harmless until you’re the one living it.

“Try to relax.”
“You just need to sleep.”
“Choose joy.”

But widowhood is a major life rupture.

And your nervous system isn’t malfunctioning — it’s doing exactly what it was designed to do when safety is disrupted and responsibility is relentless.

What widows need isn’t pressure to feel better, or to perform.

It’s support to feel grounded so we can keep moving on one step at a time.

how your sense of smell can help When Grief Is in the Body

This is where gentle sensory support — especially scent — becomes something more than “nice.”

A 2025 review published in Plants and available through PubMed Central describes aromatherapy and essential oils as complementary approaches that may support wellbeing related to stress, sleep, mood, and fatigue.

Here’s the part that matters for widows:

Inhaled aromatic compounds interact with the olfactory system, which is directly connected to brain regions involved in emotion, memory, and stress regulation — the same regions grief impacts most deeply.

This is why scent can feel immediate.
Why it bypasses logic.
Why it lands in the body before words do.

This isn’t about erasing grief.

It’s about giving your body a cue of steadiness inside the grief.

A few minutes of an encouraging or grounding scent paired with breath can become a sensory anchor — something your body recognizes as:

Right now, I can breathe.

Not because life feels normal again, or you have temporarily forgotten your pain.
But because you are being supported inside of your new reality.

Somatic Support: Helping the Body Carry What the Heart Is Carrying

Grief is not only something we think about. Or that happens to us.

It’s something we hold.

That’s why body-based practices are often kinder than mindset shifts.
They don’t demand positivity.
They don’t rush acceptance. They see what has happened and recognize it’s impact.

They offer the nervous system a different experience.

Try This When the Wave Hits

The Long Exhale Reset

• Put both feet on the floor

• One hand on your chest, one on your belly

• Inhale through the nose for 4

• Exhale slowly for 6–8

• Repeat 6 times

If you want, pair it with a scent you associate with steadiness.

You’re not denying grief.
You’re telling your body it doesn’t have to brace quite so hard for the next minute.

Widow-Specific Aromatic Support Rhythms

(Simple. Doable. No pressure.)

These are not prescriptions.
They are rhythms many widows naturally resonate with when the body is wired, exhausted, or overwhelmed.

For Sleep When Your Body Won’t Land

• Oils: Lavender + Cedarwood

• Practice: Long exhales in bed

• Breath prayer:
  Inhale: “God, you are with me.”
  Exhale: “You will never leave.”

For Mornings When Dread Hits First

• Oils: Orange or Grapefruit

• Practice: Open curtains, sip warm water, breathe before screens

• Anchor phrase: “I am here. God is here.”

For Decision-Making When Panic Rises

• Oils: Bergamot or Vetiver

• Practice: Box breathing (4-4-4-4) before the call, errand, or appointment

For Grounding When You Feel Unreal or Unsteady

• Oils: Frankincense or Vetiver

• Practice: Press feet into the floor. Name 5 things you can see.

• Ask gently: What is one next right thing?

Writing + breathing: How Widows Process Without Being Overwhelmed

This pairing matters more than most people realize.

Writing helps the brain integrate experience — giving grief somewhere to go instead of spinning endlessly inside the body.

When you add the benefits of essential oils, you give your nervous system a cue of safety + emotional support while you write.

That combination often makes it possible to stay present without getting swallowed.

The Gratefuls Practice

Use a comforting essential oil while you write.

12 small gratefuls (last 24 hours):

• hot water in the shower

• a text that didn’t demand anything

• a moment your shoulders dropped

• a song that felt like company

• a meal you didn’t have to think too hard about

3 large gratefuls:

• God’s presence

• Survival through an unwanted season

• A life that still holds meaning, even with pain

This doesn’t deny grief.

It widens the nervous system’s capacity to hold more than one truth at once.

Why I Personally Believe in This Support

I don’t share this as theory.

I share it because my body reached places words could not express.

Essential oils didn’t fix my grief.
They didn’t remove my loss.

But they gave my nervous system something steady to lean into and hold onto when everything else felt unsteady.

They helped me breathe when panic wanted to take over.
Sleep when my body wouldn’t land.
Stay present when the weight felt unbearable.

And over time, that really mattered and made a tremendous difference.

A Gentle Next Step (If You Feel Yourself Here)

If you’re reading this and thinking:

“I don’t need another thing — but I do need support,”

I understand.

I’ve put together some simple options for widows to find and explore using essential oils for nervous-system support.

You will find:

• which oils I personally use and recommend for widows or those grieving

• ways to use them simply (no overwhelm)

• why these matter to me and how I use them

👉 [Explore essential oils for widowhood / grief support here]

A Closing Word for Widows

If your body still feels on edge, it doesn’t mean you’re failing.

It means you loved.
It means you lost.
It means you are still adjusting to the weight of carrying these two things at once.

And there are gentle, natural supports that can help you carry it — breath, body, scent, writing, prayer — small anchors that remind your nervous system:

You are not alone in this.

Research Referenced

• Seiler et al., The Psychobiology of Bereavement — impacts on stress, immune, and autonomic pathways.

• Caballero-Gallardo et al. (2025), Aromatherapy and Essential Oils as Complementary Wellbeing Support, Plants.

Widowhood grief affects more than emotions — it impacts the nervous system, sleep, stress regulation, cognition, and the body itself. Many widows experience physical symptoms of grief such as anxiety, panic, exhaustion, disrupted sleep, and nervous system overload following the loss of a spouse. Research in bereavement psychology and psychobiology shows that prolonged grief and caregiving stress can influence autonomic nervous system rhythms, immune and inflammatory pathways, and overall wellbeing. Gentle, body-based support — including somatic practices, breathwork, journaling, prayer, and sensory tools like essential oils — may help widows support nervous system regulation and carry grief with steadiness. This post offers grief-informed, natural support options for widows seeking holistic, faith-rooted ways to care for their bodies while navigating loss.

Why Christmas Hits Widows So Hard (And What Your Body Is Actually Experiencing)

Christmas is supposed to feel warm, right?

Cheery.
Hopeful.
Connected.

But for many widows, Christmas feels like the opposite.

It feels loud. Exposing.
Heavy in ways that don’t make sense until you realize this truth:

Christmas grief isn’t just emotional.
It’s physiological + physiological.

And once you understand what’s happening in the body and brain, a lot of the guilt starts to lift.

Grief Doesn’t Go on Holiday - Your Nervous System Knows That

Grief doesn’t live only in the heart. It lives in the nervous system.
In memory.
In muscle tension and breath and exhaustion.

Christmas brings a perfect storm of triggers:

• Familiar songs

• Traditions tied to someone who is gone

• Smells, places, routines

• Social expectations to “be okay”

Your brain doesn’t interpret these as neutral reminders.

It interprets them as threat cues.

So even if you want to enjoy Christmas, your body may already be bracing itself.

That’s a built in response intended to strengthen and protect your body, not weakness.
That’s biology.

The Science Behind Christmas Grief for Widows

This matters, because so many widows blame themselves or feel guilty for how hard the holidays feel.

Here’s what’s actually happening inside of you.

1. Grief Elevates Stress Hormones - Especially During the Holidays

Grief increases cortisol, the body’s primary stress hormone.
Holidays intensify this response because they activate memory, loss, and expectation all at once.

High cortisol can cause:

• Fatigue

• Brain fog

• Emotional numbness or overwhelm

• Heightened anxiety

Which explains why Christmas tasks that once felt simple now feel exhausting.

2. Your Brain Can’t Tell Past Loss from Present Danger

When grief is triggered, the brain responds as if the loss is happening now.

That’s why Christmas doesn’t just remind widows of who is missing —
it makes the absence feel immediate and visceral.

Your body reacts before your logic can catch up.

3. Loneliness Peaks During the Holidays — Even When You’re Not Alone

Widows are statistically more likely to experience loneliness during holidays, even when surrounded by people.

Togetherness can highlight absence.
Celebration can amplify grief.

Being invited doesn’t always equal feeling seen.

And that disconnect hurts.

4. Grief Impacts Focus, Memory, and Decision-Making

Widows often struggle with concentration during the holidays.

Not because they’re “stuck” - but because grief places a cognitive load on the brain.

Planning, organizing, responding, and socializing all require more effort than before.

Your brain is working harder than people realize.

Why Many Widows Pull Back at Christmas

This part often gets misunderstood.

Widows don’t withdraw because they don’t care.
They withdraw because they’re trying to regulate.

They are managing:

• Emotional exposure

• Social pressure

• Invisible grief

• The weight of missing someone in public

Sometimes staying home isn’t avoidance.

It’s self-protection.

You Are Not Failing Christmas

Let me say this clearly.

If Christmas feels heavy:

• You are not doing it wrong

• You are not spiritually immature

• You are not ungrateful

You are grieving.

And grief changes how the body experiences joy, noise, connection, and memory.

Even the Christmas story itself begins in vulnerability:
Displacement.
Fear.
Uncertainty.
A birth surrounded by instability.

Jesus did not arrive in a world of comfort.

He arrived in a world that was already aching.

Permission for holiday self care.

If you are a widow reading this, you are allowed to:

• Change traditions

• Say no without explanation

• Leave early

• Celebrate quietly

• Or not celebrate at all

God does not ask you to perform or to fake joy.

Scripture tells us:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” (Psalm 34:18)

Close.
Not corrective.
Not disappointed.
Not expecting you to feel better, do better.

Just to be present + honest.

One Last Thing I Want You to Know

Your grief doesn’t mean love is gone.
It means love still has weight.

And your body is carrying it the best way it knows how.

You are not broken beyond repair. Not at all.
You are responding to loss.

You are holding a love that hurts.

And you don’t have to carry it alone. God is truly with you. Right in the middle of the ache.

Christmas grief for widows is not just emotional—it is neurological and physiological. This article explains why the holidays intensify grief after the loss of a spouse, including how the brain processes memory, how the nervous system responds to holiday triggers, and why widows often feel exhausted, overwhelmed, or disconnected during Christmas. Written from a grief-informed and faith-centered perspective, this reflection helps widows understand the science behind holiday grief, release guilt, and find compassionate permission for self-care, altered traditions, and honest presence with God after loss.

When Grief Makes Your World Small: The Healing That Happens When You See Someone Else’s Story

There’s something I don’t think most people understand about grief — especially the kind that comes after losing your person.

It makes your world small.
Tight.
Closed in.

You don’t do it on purpose.
You’re not trying to shut people out.
It just… happens.

Your body is trying to survive.
Your mind is trying to make sense of a life that seemed to break down overnight.
And your spirit is trying to remember how to breathe in a world that suddenly feels unsafe.

So you fold inward.
You get quiet.
You stay in your head.
You live inside this awful ache because that’s the only place that feels real anymore.

But here’s the thing — and this is the part I wish I could sit across from every single widow and share:

There is something deeply healing that happens when you step outside your own story long enough to see someone else’s.

Not with effort.
Not with “I should.”
Not with pretending your grief isn’t heavy.

But with honesty… and a little courage… and the tiniest willingness to look up.

When I was drowning in my own grief — truly drowning — the only thing that helped me keep moving forward was entering into someone else’s story. Sitting with their pain. Seeing their grief truths. Letting God's love move through me even when I felt like I had nothing left.

And it’s wild, honestly… because it shouldn’t make sense.

How can pouring out love when you feel empty bring healing?
How can holding space for someone else while you’re shattered do anything but drain you?

But it doesn’t drain you.
Not when it’s real.
Not when you’re not forcing anything.
Not when it’s done in response to Jesus.

It actually ignites something.

I’ve felt it happen in real time — that quiet spark in my chest, that soft reminder that my story is not done, that God is somehow using my brokenness to breathe life into someone else.

That’s the Holy Spirit.
That’s love in action.
That’s what happens when grief meets compassion.

And there’s real science behind this, which honestly still amazes me.

When we enter someone else’s story with empathy — especially in shared suffering — the brain releases oxytocin. This is the “bonding” hormone. The “you’re safe with me” hormone. The “you’re not alone” signal our bodies desperately need.

It lowers cortisol — that stress hormone that grief sends skyrocketing.
It softens the nervous system.
It opens the heart and you begin to breathe again.

It reminds you that you still have feelings.
Still have love.
Still have the ability to give something meaningful even when you feel emptied out.

And this part is important:

This isn’t bypassing your own grief.
This isn’t minimizing your pain.
This isn’t trying to pretend you’re okay.

It’s the opposite.

It’s God meeting you in the raw center of your sorrow and saying, “Watch what we can do…”

Because when you step into someone else’s story — even for a moment — you’re not abandoning your own.
You’re letting Jesus shine a bit of His love through the cracks that have felt useless or unworthy.

And scripture backs this.
John tells us that perfect love casts out fear — not your strength, not your resilience, not your best attempts to be okay… love.

God’s love through you.
God’s love toward you.
God’s love weaving stories so no one has to sit in the dark alone.

I used to think I needed to “heal first” before I had anything to offer.
But that was a BIG FAT lie — a straight-up lie from the enemy.

The truth is this:
Love doesn’t stop, get bruised, or pause for you to be healed in order to flow through you.
God doesn’t wait for your story to be tidy and neat before He uses it.
And grief doesn’t disqualify you from being someone who brings light into the world.

In fact… your grief might make you more tender, more aware, more present than you ever were before.

You don’t have to feel whole to offer love.
You just have to be willing.

And even that willingness?
He gives that too.

The Sacred Work of Bearing Witness

One of the most powerful things I’ve learned in grief is this:

You don’t have to fix someone to love them.
You just have to witness them.

Bearing witness is holy ground.

It’s looking at someone else’s pain without trying to tidy it.
It’s listening without offering answers.
It’s saying, with your presence, “I see you. You’re not alone in this moment.”

And something surprising happens when you do this — even while you’re grieving yourself:

You remember that your heart still works.
You remember that God is still moving.
You remember that tenderness still lives inside you, even on the days you feel numb.

Bearing witness isn’t about giving out what you don’t have.
It’s about letting your story sit beside someone else’s story and trusting that God will do the weaving.

Because grief convinces us that we’re useless.
That we’re too broken to show up for anyone else.
That our pain disqualifies us from offering comfort.

But the truth?

Grief has trained your heart to recognize suffering.
You see it differently now.
More clearly.
More honestly.
More compassionately.

Your presence carries weight — not because you’ve healed, but because you understand.

And when two hurting hearts sit side by side, Jesus sits with them.
Not to erase the grief, but to breathe life into the space between.

That’s bearing witness.
And it is both a gift to others and a healing balm for you.

5 Practical Ways to Enter Someone Else’s Story Without Overwhelming Yourself

These are gentle, grief-friendly ways to show up without abandoning your own emotional limits.

These are the steps I lived.
The ones that kept me soft when life seemed determined to harden everything.

1. Offer Presence, Not Solutions
   You don’t need answers.
   You don’t need wisdom.
   You don’t need to say the right thing.
   Just offer a moment of presence.
   “I’m here. You don’t have to walk this alone.”
   Presence heals what explanations never will.

2. Let Your Listening Be Slow and Unrushed
   When someone shares their pain, don’t sprint to the ending.
   Sit with them in the middle.
   Slow listening says, “Your story matters. You don’t need to be faster for me.”

3. Share Only From Your Scars, Not Your Open Wounds
   You don’t have to match their pain with your own.
   But a gentle “I understand some of this” offers solidarity instead of comparison.

4. Keep It Small, Simple, and Honest
   Showing up doesn’t have to be big.
   A voice memo.
   A five-minute conversation.
   A text that asks for nothing in return.
   Small acts carry big presence.

5. Let Jesus Fill the Space You Don’t Have Words For
   Whisper, “Jesus, be here.”
   He fills what you cannot.
   He holds what neither of you can carry alone.

Here’s the beauty widows rarely hear:

Showing up for someone else in small, honest, grief-soft ways doesn’t empty you…

It grounds you.
It connects you.
It reminds you that your life still holds purpose.
That your love is still needed.
That God is still moving through your tired, hurting heart.

You are not useless.
You are not too broken.
You still carry something sacred to give — even now.
Especially now.

If You Want to Step Into Another Story With Me

One of the things that surprised me most in grief was how healing it was to enter into stories far beyond my own — especially the stories of widows in Kenya and Tanzania who carry both unimaginable weight and remarkable strength.

Their lives, their resilience, their faith… it changed something in me.
It opened my world back up when grief had made everything so small and tight.

If you’ve ever felt the nudge to step into someone else’s story — gently, slowly, in a way that brings life to both of you — I want you to know there’s room for you inside the work we do with Pamoja Love.

Through our Widow Project, we come alongside widows who are navigating heartbreak, cultural pressure, spiritual resilience, and the daily struggle to keep their families fed and safe.
And every time we stand with them, something holy happens:

Their story touches ours.
Our story touches theirs.
And God moves in the middle.

It’s not charity.
It’s not “helping the needy.”
It’s story joining — grief with grief, strength with strength, hope with hope.

If your heart is longing for a way to feel connected again…
If you want to witness courage that awakens something inside you…
If you want to know that your story still has something sacred to give…

You’re invited to join us.

Whether it’s praying for a widow by name, helping provide food for her children, supporting leadership training, or simply learning more about her world — you are stepping into a place where love, empathy, and healing move both directions.

And maybe… just maybe…
God will use their story to breathe a little life into yours, the same way He did for me.

If you want to learn more, you can visit: Pamoja Love Nonprofit
www.pamoja.love
and explore the Widow Project.

There is room for you here too.
Your grief.
Your tenderness.
Your story.
All welcome.

Ideas for when grief makes your world feel small.

This post explores grief, widowhood, empathy, nervous system healing, Christian faith, and the emotional and physiological impact of bearing witness to someone else’s story. It includes grief science, widow support, oxytocin and cortisol explanation, faith-based grief encouragement, and practical tools for healing. For widows searching for understanding, Christian grief resources, grief community, nervous system support in grief, or how to navigate sorrow with Jesus, this article provides compassionate guidance, trauma-informed wisdom, and spiritual grounding.

Why It’s Hard to Be Friends with a Widow (and How to Stay Anyway)

When my husband died, I expected grief to change me — I didn’t, however, expect it to change the bulk of my friendships too.

Grief reshaped relationships in ways no one prepared me for. In fact, nobody was talking about it. One day I was sharing everyday life with friends; the next, I was standing awkwardly unsure of how to connect at all.

One day we were swapping stories about dinner plans, the kids, and weekend trips. The next, I was sitting across from familiar faces, feeling like I no longer fit inside the same world. I laughed at the right moments, nodded along, but inside something ached. I was the same — and I was definitely not. I felt as if I was betraying myself by pretending.

For me, the world grew quieter, out of sync, and unknown. For my friends, it grew awkward. Both sides ached for connection, but neither knew how to bridge the gap.

The Rift You Don’t See Coming

No one warned me that loss wouldn’t just take my person — it would rearrange absolutely everything and leave me wondering where I belonged now. Where would I not feel alone?

Our worlds no longer matched.

My world had split in two. Theirs hadn’t. It wasn’t their fault, but it left me suspended between who I had been and who I was becoming. I had no idea what it would take to find my way back — or to wherever I was going. And I certainly had no idea who would stay long enough to walk with me while I tried. I knew my process of finding out was going to be messy.

Triggers hid in the ordinary.

Dinner invites, anniversary posts, a casual mention of “we” — everything that once felt normal began to set off alarms inside of me. Grief didn’t announce it was entering; it simply stormed in, loud and uninvited, right in the middle of simple moments and everyday life.

My brain didn’t work the same.

I retold stories, processes, experiences. I forgot what I had said and to whom I’d already said it. Sometimes I held back because I didn’t want to be “too much,” and other times everything just poured out wildly. Either way, I felt exposed, raw and vulnerable. The inside of me was a garbled mess and any words that came out would be sure to reveal that truth.

Silence filled the gap.

Some friends stopped calling or messaging — I don’t believe it had to do with them being uncaring but much more because they didn’t know how to. The fear of saying the wrong thing kept them quiet, yet the silence hurt more than awkward words would have. Because awkward was my new grieving norm anyway.

My capacity changed without warning.

Some days I wanted company. Other days I couldn’t breathe around people. It wasn’t rejection — it was survival. It was my way of trying to process the uneven weight that grief so abrasively dumps on you.

How to Stay Anyway

If you love a widow, it will feel uncomfortable.
You’ll second-guess your words. You’ll worry about saying too much or doing too little.
But staying matters more than getting it right.

Here’s what I’ve learned from both sides of this fragile space:

1. Show up, even when it’s awkward.

Don’t wait for the perfect words or timing — they don’t exist. Presence is the healing language of grief. Send the text. Sit in the silence. Drop off the coffee even if she doesn’t open the door.

2. Say what’s real.

“I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.”
That kind of honesty builds trust faster than any forced encouragement ever could.

3. Let the friendship change.

It won’t look like it used to — and that’s okay. Grief isn’t going anywhere.
This version will be quieter, slower, more intentional. That’s how love rebuilds itself after loss.

4. Offer small, steady gestures.

Grief drains decision-making and emotional energy. It makes the body tired. A consistent rhythm of small care says, “You’re still seen.” And consistency shows you plan on sticking around.

5. Learn the language of grief.

Listen more than you speak. Ask what helps, what feels heavy, what she misses most.
Let her story be the teacher.

Posture. Presence. Patience.

Over time, I’ve learned these three are what every grieving heart — and every lasting friendship — needs.

Posture: Come as a learner. Listen before you speak. Ask thoughtful questions. Let empathy lead. Hold fewer opinions, give less advice, and make more room for her story.

Presence: Be near. Stay steady when she withdraws, cries, or changes the subject. Your quiet consistency will mean more than you realize.

Patience: Grief takes time to find it’s way, and it’s not linear. Let her move at her own pace. There’s no “before” to return to — only a new kind of life to walk together.

These three — posture, presence, patience — rebuild safety in a world that feels unsafe. They whisper, You’re not too much. I’m not going anywhere.

For the Ones Who Want to Stay

If you’re walking through loss — or walking beside someone who is — I created something for you.
It isn’t a checklist or a script. It’s a way to stay close when things feel uneasy.

Staying Close: What to Say + How to Show Up

A free, practical resource that gives language to the widow and tools to her circle of support —helping both sides find their way to stay connected.

Because the truth is, friendship after loss isn’t ever about saying the right thing.
It’s about standing close enough to feel and engage with what really matters.

Enter your email below to have this helpful information sent to your inbox.

Where Love Still Lives | A Modern Lament of Loss + Remembering

Where Love Still Lives

A Modern Lament

Before You Read

I want you to lean in and listen to this…

Love does not die when we lose our person. And in ways our person doesn’t either.
I know that may sound a bit strange, but let’s think about it for a minute. We do indeed stop physically living beside the person we love, but in our mind and hearts we keep living with them — through memory, story, laughter, faith, and the everyday ways their love still lingers in who we are and the memories that have shaped us.

When I first started writing again, I wasn’t trying to create something beautiful. I was trying to release, process, leak out my emotions…. survive basically.

There were feelings that words couldn’t hold and silence that felt unbearable. Writing became a way to speak when my heart didn’t have language yet — to honor what was, to name what still was, and to remember that love hadn’t gone anywhere.

And even now, as I write this, six years later… I am still finding a beautiful release in the writing of raw words — today it was the unfolding of my modern lament.

It’s honest. It’s messy. It’s love and loss braided together.
And I share it with you because maybe you’ve felt that too — the strange ache of loving someone who isn’t here, yet still is. Here we go:

Where Love Still Lives

My modern lament of loss + remembering.

One minute we were laughing,
planning out our days.
And then suddenly we were sitting behind a curtain —
so many questions,
so many tests.

It was the beginning of pain I’d never known before.
 Pain that reached down deep and rearranged everything.

Fourteen months.
They flew by and dragged on all at once.
 Hope. Fear. Love. Torment. 
All tangled up together,
twisting through the same days.

The deepest kind of love I’ve ever felt —
the kind that digs into your soul,
planting memories you don’t want to forget,
even as you’re watching the leaves of your family tree start to wither.

I wanted to hold on tight —
to every moment, every breath, every look.
Because I knew the end of us was coming.
And the knowing stole my air.

There were days I had to run outside,
just to see the world going on,
but at the same time everything in me wanted it to stop.
Because I knew the faster it moved the sooner we would end.

I would try to imagine myself walking without you —
living on without you
 but I couldn’t. The thought of it made my body shut down.


Sometimes I’d start gasping for air,
other times dry heaving —
that’s the ugly, beautiful truth of love that hurts.
It takes your breath even when you’re trying to hold it.

And yet, here I am today.
Still breathing.
Still holding you — maybe tighter than ever.
You’re here, just differently now.
Not beside me,
but within me. You live in my heart and in my mind,
woven into the threads of my being.

People say time heals,
but I don’t believe that.
Time doesn’t erase love —
Neither does death —
it just changes its form.
The ache stays,
but so does the gift of you.
The way you loved.
The way you gave.
The way you taught me what it means to stay.

I still see you.
I see you in the way our children love others,
serve others,
show kindness and generosity.
You taught them that.

I still hear you —
in their laughter,
their morals,
their love for Jesus.
I remember how you looked right at them —
steady eyes, a firm resolve —
and you asked,
“Do actions speak louder than words?”

They answered,
and you smiled.
You said,
“That’s right… love well.”

And that’s what we’re here still trying to do.
To love well.
To live like you did —
with faith,
with courage,
with kindness.

Your life mattered.
And your love carries on.
We hold it dear.
In the same space as the ache of missing you.
Love still lives here.
Right here.
Inside all that remains.

Why This Matters

I think we forget sometimes that grief is love — still living, still reaching, still remembering.
Writing a lament like this doesn’t make the pain go away, but it gives it somewhere to rest — to be valued, and recognized.
It allows us to see that even in the cracks of heartbreak, love keeps growing.

If you’ve lost someone you love, try writing your own Modern Lament.
It doesn’t have to sound poetic or polished — it just needs to sound like you.
It’s a sacred way to tell your story of loss, to remember what you are still carrying, and to let God meet you in the ache.

You can start with a few simple questions:

• What did I go through?

• Where do I still feel their presence in my life today?

• What did they give me that I still carry?

• What do I want to remember about the love we shared?

Write it for you.
Not to move on, but to move with.
Because love doesn’t end when life does — it carries on, with us.
And sometimes, naming that love is how we keep breathing.

Write Your Own Modern Lament

A Guided Reflection for the Ones Still Learning to Live with the Love That Remains

If something in you stirred while reading this — that ache, that knowing — maybe it’s time to put words to your own story.
To honor your journey and let your heart speak what it’s been carrying.
This is how we begin to live with love in a new way — not gone, but woven in.

I’ve created a gentle guide to help you start.
Inside, you’ll find prompts and simple steps to help you hold what still hurts while remembering what still matters.

→ Get the free guide: Write Your Own Modern Lament
(It will arrive in your inbox with other valuable information about walking with grief.)

Because love still lives here — even in the midst of the ache.
And sometimes the most sacred thing we can do
is let it speak.