Grief fog, emotional whiplash, and nervous system protection
Grief fog and emotional whiplash can feel alarming in widowhood. This post explains why clarity, pain, and calm shift suddenly — and how the nervous system protects you.
why “I was okay… and then I wasn’t” is normal
One of the most unsettling parts of grief isn’t the pain.
It’s the sudden shifts.
You wake up and feel almost steady. You answer an email. You make a plan. For a moment, life feels manageable.
And then — without warning — the floor drops out.
Your chest tightens. Tears come fast. Everything feels heavy and unreal again.
The swing is so abrupt it can make you wonder:
Was that calm fake?
Am I going backward?
Why can’t I stay in one place emotionally?
What you’re experiencing is not instability.
It’s protection.
Grief fog is not confusion — it’s a buffering system
Grief fog often feels like:
mental slowness
difficulty concentrating
feeling detached or distant
trouble tracking conversations
a sense of unreality
This can be frightening, especially if you’ve always been clear-minded or high-functioning.
But grief fog isn’t your brain failing.
It’s your nervous system reducing input when the emotional load is too high.
When loss overwhelms the system:
attention narrows
sensory detail softens
emotional distance increases
This is the brain saying,
We cannot take all of this in at once.
Fog is not avoidance.
It’s mercy.
Why calm can appear suddenly — and disappear just as fast
Many widows feel ashamed when moments of calm appear.
They wonder if it means:
they’re “doing grief wrong”
they’re forgetting
they’re minimizing the loss
But calm doesn’t mean grief is gone.
It means a different part of the brain has come back online.
Grief involves rapid switching between brain systems:
attachment and threat networks activate during pain
the prefrontal cortex (reasoning, grounding) re-engages during calm
These shifts can happen quickly — sometimes within minutes.
So the experience of:
“I was okay… and then I wasn’t”
is not regression.
It’s the nervous system cycling between states.
This back-and-forth is how the brain prevents overwhelm.
Emotional whiplash is common — especially in early grief
In widowhood, emotional whiplash can feel extreme because every area of life has been touched by the loss.
Home.
Identity.
Future.
Security.
Belonging.
When everything is connected to the same absence, the system doesn’t get clear breaks.
So the brain alternates:
immersion in grief
temporary reprieve
Again and again.
This oscillation is known in grief science as dual-process coping — the natural movement between:
loss-oriented states (pain, yearning, tears)
restorative states (neutral focus, small moments of functioning)
You are not supposed to stay in one state.
You are supposed to move.
Why fog often lifts before the sadness does
Many widows notice something strange:
the fog clears
thinking sharpens
orientation returns
But the sadness remains.
This can feel confusing.
But it makes sense physiologically.
As the stress response settles:
oxygen and carbon dioxide balance improves
muscle tension decreases
the brain regains clarity
Emotion lingers longer than confusion.
So when you feel clearer but still sad, nothing has gone wrong.
Your body simply completed one part of the stress cycle.
Gentle ways to work with fog and whiplash
You don’t need to fight these states.
You can support them.
Name what’s happening
“This is fog.” “This is a shift.” Naming reduces fear.Lower expectations during fog
This is not the time for decisions or deep conversations.Orient gently when clarity returns
Notice where you are. What feels solid. Let yourself re-enter slowly.Trust the rhythm
Calm does not mean forgetting. Pain does not mean failure.
No forcing.
No fixing.
Just cooperation.
What your nervous system is really doing
When grief swings between fog, pain, and brief calm, your body is not betraying you.
It’s pacing the loss.
It’s protecting you from carrying the full weight all at once.
It’s keeping you alive inside a world that no longer matches the one you knew.
A sentence to return to when the shifts feel scary
The movement between fog, pain, and calm is not instability — it is the nervous system protecting you from overwhelm as you grieve.
You are not broken because you change throughout the day.
You are surviving something that changed everything.
Closing the series
Grief is not one feeling.
It is a process moving through a body.
Waves rise and settle.
Tears release pressure.
Fog buffers what’s too much.
Calm returns — not as closure, but as breath.
None of this means the loss mattered less.
It means your body is doing what it was designed to do:
carry love, survive rupture, and bring you back to yourself — again and again.
Why crying helps the body release grief and why holding it in makes it harder
Crying during grief can feel frightening, but it often helps the nervous system release stress. This post explains why tears can bring relief in widowhood.
For many widows, crying feels dangerous.
Not emotionally — physically.
There’s a fear that once tears start, something will break open that can’t be contained. That the body will spiral. That the wave will grow instead of pass.
So many widows learn to do this instead:
swallow hard
tighten the jaw
distract
hold their breath
wait it out
It looks like strength.
But inside the body, something else is happening.
Crying is not a loss of control — it’s a nervous system response
Emotional crying is not the same as panic or emotional collapse.
It’s a biological response that involves multiple systems working together:
emotion processing
breath
facial muscles
tear glands
autonomic nervous system regulation
When grief rises, the sympathetic nervous system activates — heart rate increases, muscles tighten, breath shortens.
Crying often appears near the peak of that activation.
Not as a failure — but as a signal that the body has reached its limit and is beginning to release.
What research shows about crying and time
Studies on emotional crying consistently show:
most crying episodes last 5–20 minutes
intense crying rarely sustains beyond 30 minutes unless re-triggered
after crying, many people report:
calmer breathing
reduced tension
emotional softening
a sense of release
This doesn’t mean people feel “better.”
It means the stress response has begun to complete its cycle.
The grief remains.
The intensity shifts.
Why holding back tears often prolongs distress
Suppressing tears doesn’t stop the wave.
It interrupts the body’s attempt to regulate.
When tears are held back:
muscle tension stays high
breath remains shallow
stress hormones linger longer
emotional pressure builds internally
This is why widows often say:
“I didn’t cry — but I felt worse afterward.”
The wave had nowhere to go.
Crying isn’t what overwhelms the body.
Unreleased activation does.
The moment tears come is often the turning point
Many widows notice a pattern they’ve never been told to trust:
intensity builds
pressure peaks
tears come
breath loosens
fog begins to thin
Crying doesn’t end grief.
But it often marks the crest of the wave — the point where the nervous system begins to downshift.
The storm hasn’t passed.
But the worst of the wind has moved through.
When crying feels frightening or out of control
Some widows experience crying that feels panicky, breathless, or destabilizing.
This usually happens when:
grief is layered with trauma
the body is already exhausted
the nervous system has been in high alert for too long
tears are mixed with fear of the tears
In these moments, crying isn’t the problem.
The fear around the crying is.
Supporting the body — rather than stopping the tears — is what helps.
Gentle ways to support crying without forcing it
This is not about “letting it all out.”
It’s about staying with the body while it releases.
You might try:
placing a hand on your chest or stomach
allowing your breath to lengthen naturally after a sob
sitting or lying down so the body doesn’t have to hold itself up
letting your face soften instead of clenching
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing performative.
Just support.
What crying is actually saying
Crying is not saying:
“I can’t handle this.”
It’s saying:
This matters.
This hurts.
I need release.
Tears are not regression.
They are communication.
They are the body speaking when words are insufficient.
A sentence to hold when tears come
Crying often marks the peak of a grief wave, and allowing it can help the nervous system begin to settle rather than prolong distress.
You are not unraveling when you cry.
You are releasing what your body can no longer carry silently.
Coming next
In the next post, we’ll talk about grief fog, sudden calm, and emotional whiplash — and why going from “I’m okay” to “this is unbearable” and back again is not instability, but protection.
Because once widows understand that, they stop judging themselves for surviving.
Want to learn more and find some practical helps? You can purchase The Impact of Grief Ebook
This article explains why crying during grief can help the nervous system release stress rather than make grief worse. It explores emotional crying, stress hormones, and parasympathetic regulation in widowhood, showing how tears often mark the peak of a grief wave and help the body settle. This science-informed grief education helps widows understand their tears, reduce fear around crying, and trust their body’s natural responses to loss.
How long grief waves last and why they feel endless when you're in them
Grief waves can feel endless, especially in widowhood. This post explains how long acute grief waves typically last, why time feels distorted during grief, and how the nervous system eventually settles.
One of the most fear-inducing parts of grief isn’t the pain itself.
It’s the fear that it won’t stop.
A wave hits and your body tightens. Your breath shortens. Your chest aches. Tears come fast or not at all. Thinking narrows until everything feels urgent and unbearable.
And somewhere inside, a quiet panic forms:
What if this never settles?
That fear makes grief harder than it needs to be.
So let’s talk honestly — and accurately — about what’s happening inside the body when a grief wave hits.
Acute grief waves have a biological time course
When grief surges, the body enters an acute stress response.
This involves:
activation of the sympathetic nervous system
release of stress hormones like adrenaline and cortisol
narrowing of attention and heightened emotional intensity
This state feels all-consuming — but it is not infinite.
Across stress-response and affective neuroscience research, there is a consistent finding:
The body cannot maintain peak physiological arousal indefinitely.
In most people:
acute emotional surges peak and begin to resolve within about 10–30 minutes
even very intense waves usually soften within 20–45 minutes
longer episodes often involve re-triggering, not a single uninterrupted wave
This doesn’t mean the sadness disappears.
It means the intensity begins to shift.
The wave moves.
Why grief feels endless while it’s happening
If grief waves are time-limited, why do they feel infinite?
Because during high emotional arousal, the brain’s sense of time changes.
When the stress response is active:
the prefrontal cortex (reasoning, time awareness) goes partially offline
the brain shifts into threat-based processing
the present moment expands and stretches
This is why:
five minutes can feel like an hour
you lose track of time while crying
you feel trapped inside the moment
This isn’t imagination or exaggeration.
It’s how the brain works under stress.
So when a widow says, “It felt like it would never end,” she’s telling the truth — about the experience, not the biology.
Crying often marks the crest of the wave
Many people worry that crying is what keeps a grief wave going.
In reality, emotional crying often happens near the peak of the stress response.
Studies on crying show that:
most crying episodes last 5–20 minutes
crying can activate parasympathetic (calming) pathways
after crying, many people report some degree of relief or settling
Crying doesn’t end grief.
But it often helps the body complete a stress cycle.
Tears are not the wave getting worse.
They are often the wave turning.
Why waves repeat throughout the day
Grief rarely comes as one long, steady experience.
Instead, it moves in cycles.
This is explained by what grief researchers call dual-process coping — the natural oscillation between:
loss-oriented states (pain, yearning, tears)
restorative states (neutral focus, functioning, brief calm)
Your brain cannot stay fully immersed in loss all day.
So it moves you in and out.
In early widowhood, this can happen:
multiple times an hour
dozens of times a day
This isn’t emotional instability.
It’s neurobiological protection.
The body is dosing the pain.
When waves last longer — what that usually means
Sometimes grief waves feel longer, heavier, or harder to come out of.
This usually isn’t because the grief itself is “stronger.”
Common reasons include:
exhaustion or sleep deprivation
hunger or dehydration
cumulative stress
repeated memory activation or rumination
lack of any settling input (rest, support, grounding)
In these cases, waves may:
stack back-to-back
feel like one long surge
take longer to soften
This is nervous system overload, not failure.
And it’s addressable.
Gentle practices that can help a wave move through
Nothing here is about stopping grief.
These practices simply help the body do what it already knows how to do: settle after a surge.
You don’t need to do all of these.
Even one is enough.
Name the wave
Quietly saying, “This is a wave,” can reduce panic and help the body stay with the experience.Support the breath without forcing it
Let your breath lengthen naturally. Even placing a hand on your chest can signal safety.Reduce stimulation
Lower lights. Sit or lie down. Fewer inputs help the nervous system exit high alert.Allow the tears
If they come, let them come. Resisting often prolongs distress.Orient gently when the fog lifts
Notice where you are. What you can see. What feels solid. This helps the brain re-anchor.
These are not fixes.
They are permissions.
A sentence to return to mid-wave
Most grief waves rise and begin to settle within minutes, even when the pain feels endless — because the nervous system is designed to crest and fall, not stay in peak distress.
You are not failing because it hurts this much.
You are surviving something that hurts this much.
Coming next
In the next post, we’ll look closely at why crying helps instead of harms, what’s happening in the nervous system during tears, and how to stop fearing the moment emotion breaks through.
Because understanding that changes everything for widows who’ve learned to hold it all in.
Why grief can feel like a storm and what your body is actually telling you.
Grief often feels overwhelming because it moves through the body in waves. Sudden surges, foggy thinking, and intense emotion are not signs of weakness — they’re the nervous system responding to loss. Understanding what your body is doing can soften fear and help you ride each wave with more trust.
Grief rarely arrives as something gentle.
It comes like weather — sudden, disorienting, and powerful enough to change the landscape of your inner world without asking permission.
One moment you are functioning.
The next, your chest tightens, your breath shortens, your thoughts scatter, and something inside you braces as if danger has entered the room.
This is why grief so often feels like a storm.
Not because you are dramatic.
Not because you are unstable.
But because your body is responding to loss exactly the way it is designed to respond to threat.
A sudden loss creates a pressure shift inside the body
In a physical storm, the air pressure changes before the rain ever falls. The body senses it first.
Grief works the same way.
When someone you love is suddenly absent, your nervous system does not interpret that as “sad news.” It interprets it as a rupture in safety and attachment.
So the body responds:
Heart rate increases
Breathing becomes shallow or tight
Muscles brace
Thinking narrows
Emotions surge quickly and intensely
This is not emotional weakness.
It is the acute stress response activating to protect you.
Your body is trying to survive a world that no longer makes sense.
Grief moves in waves because the body cannot hold everything at once
One of the most confusing parts of grief is how it comes and goes.
You may feel relatively okay one moment — and then suddenly overwhelmed the next. The shift can be fast enough to make you wonder if something is wrong with you.
What’s actually happening is this:
The nervous system cannot stay at peak intensity indefinitely.
When grief surges, the body enters a high-alert state. Stress hormones rise. Attention narrows. Emotion intensifies.
But that state is not sustainable.
So the body does what it is designed to do:
it crests — and then begins to settle.
Within a single day, grief often moves in waves:
rising suddenly
peaking intensely
then easing enough for breath, clarity, or orientation to return
The loss does not disappear.
But the wave passes.
This cycling is not instability.
It is protection.
Crying is often part of the release, not the problem
Many people fear the moment tears arrive.
“If I start crying, I won’t stop.”
“If I let this out, I’ll fall apart.”
But emotional crying is not usually what prolongs a grief wave. In many cases, it signals that the body has reached the crest of the stress response.
Crying activates calming pathways in the nervous system. It can help shift the body out of high alert and toward settling.
The tears do not mean the storm is getting worse.
They often mean pressure is being released.
The fog is not failure — it’s protection
Alongside the waves, many people experience fog.
Thinking feels slow.
Words don’t land.
The world feels distant or unreal.
This fog is not confusion or denial.
When the nervous system is overloaded, clarity is often the first thing to go. Narrowing awareness helps protect the brain from taking in more than it can handle.
As the wave settles, many people notice:
the fog thinning
orientation returning
the ability to engage coming back online
This does not mean the grief is gone.
It means the body found its way back to you again.
What your body is actually saying
When grief feels like a storm, your body is not saying,
“Something is wrong with you.”
It is saying:
This loss matters.
I am trying to keep you safe.
We cannot carry all of this at once.
The waves, the tears, the fog, the sudden quiet — these are not signs of failure.
They are signs of a nervous system working hard to survive love that was torn away.
A sentence to return to when the wind picks up
Grief moves through the body in waves, and while the loss remains, the nervous system is designed to rise, crest, and settle — even when the storm feels overwhelming.
You don’t have to control the storm.
You don’t have to rush the calm.
You could try saying this out loud as a reminder:
“This wave will move.
My body knows how to come back.”
Telling yourself this often will remind your brain and body of these simple truths and help regulate you, and build trust with your process.
I hope this help!
Sending yo uso much love,
Kimber
Coming next in this series
In the next posts, we’ll slow this down and look more closely at what’s happening inside the body — including:
Understanding the body doesn’t take the pain away.
But it does remove the fear — and fear is often what makes grief harder than it already is.
Grief often feels like a storm because it moves through the body in waves. In this post, I explain what happens in the nervous system after the loss of a spouse — including grief surges, emotional fog, crying, and sudden shifts between calm and overwhelm. This grief education is designed specifically for widows who feel confused by their body’s responses and want a science-informed, compassionate understanding of why grief comes and goes. Understanding how grief waves work can reduce fear, normalize physical symptoms of grief, and help widows trust their body during acute grief.
7 Goals That Actually Matter for Widows in 2026
Losing your husband doesn’t just break your heart—it reshapes your body, your faith, and your capacity for life. These seven grief-informed goals offer widows a different way forward in 2026—one rooted in safety, connection, and honest care beyond survival.
Losing your husband is disorienting.
There’s no easing into it. Grief doesn’t arrive gently—it takes you out. It knocks you flat on your face.
You try to get up, but the energy it takes just to stand leaves your legs shaky. The thought of walking forward—of moving into a life shaped by this kind of loss—feels beyond exhausting. Overwhelming in ways you didn’t know were possible.
Over time, you find a rhythm.
You learn how to get through the days. How to function. How to survive.
And for a while, survival feels like enough.
But somewhere along the way, a quieter question starts to surface—one you might not even say out loud:
Is survival really all there is now?
What if God has more for you than just surviving the death of your husband?
What if He honestly has more than just getting you through the day?
What about a life that still holds meaning?
What about purpose that doesn’t feel forced or fake?
What about moments that actually feel life-giving—the kind that settle your body, soften your thoughts, and remind you there is still goodness to be found, even here?
Because losing a spouse doesn’t just break your heart.
It changes how your brain works.
It changes how your body carries stress, fatigue, and emotion.
And it can quietly shift how you experience God, leaving Him feeling distant, muted, or harder to reach than He used to be.
Widowhood takes so much.
And yet… it also asks something new of us.
Not to move on.
Not to rush healing.
But to find a different rhythm—one that goes beyond survival and slowly opens space for life again.
That’s what these seven goals are about.
Not resolutions.
Not pressure.
Just what actually matters for widows stepping into 2026.
7 goals to help a widow move out of survival mode in 2026
1. create a heart space for your grief
Grief needs to be felt and processed to move.
So many widows carry the load internally—processing in their heads, over and over again. Ruminating. Over time, that kind of carrying becomes exhausting.
Making a heart space is about permission.
Permission to pause.
Permission to feel.
Permission to be honest.
This might look like creating a physical Grief Nook—a cozy chair, a journal, a wrap, a few meaningful objects. And time, time to be intentional. Time set aside where grief is allowed to exist without interruption.
Grief moves differently, more freely, when it knows it has a safe place to land and process.
And so do you. Having a physical space designed specifically to hold you well as you try new ways of processing the loss you carry with you — helps you to feel safe, seen, held and free to release.
2. Help your body feel safe
Grief doesn’t only live in the heart—it lives in the body.
After loss, the nervous system often stays on high alert. Sleep changes. Startle responses increase. Rest feels shallow or unreachable.
You can’t think your way out of that. Ruminating won’t resolve this.
Helping your body feel safe again might look like gentle grounding techniques, breath prayers, sensory awareness, or stillness. Small, repeated practices matter more than big efforts.
Science tells us that consistency helps the nervous system relearn safety. But even without knowing the science, most widows feel it when their body finds ways to exhale.
This isn’t about fixing the loss… because we can’t.
It’s about caring for yourself, and reminding yourself you are still safe and held in the midst of the ache.
3. Finding new ways to Sit with Jesus in your grief
Grief changes faith.
Prayer time shifts.
Scripture lands differently.
God can feel quieter—distant.
Many widows carry this unspoken thought:
”I don’t know how to be with God like I used to. I’m just not feeling it.”
God hasn’t changed but our ability to be present, connect, and feel safe in this world has..
This leads us to an invitation.
Sitting with Jesus in your grief and building authentic connection can look and feel very different after an extreme loss. Sometimes it looks like silence. Sometimes brutal honesty. Sometimes it’s a creative process. Often it is by engaging the imagination differently.
Jesus isn’t waiting for you to be “better.”
He’s already here. Right in the midst. He understands + loves you in the most tender way.
He sees you.
4. Practice gratitude without pretending
Gratitude after loss can feel very complicated.
It’s often mistaken for denial or forced positivity—and that’s not what this is about. At all.
This isn’t about slapping a grateful face on a broken heart or convincing yourself things are okay when they’re not.
And yet… there’s something important here.
Consistent gratitude practices are known to support the brain and nervous system, especially after trauma. They don’t erase pain—but they do help the mind notice moments of safety and goodness alongside grief, not instead of it.
That matters.
Because grief keeps the brain on high alert. And gratitude, practiced gently and honestly, can help soften anxiety and bring the nervous system out of constant bracing.
One simple rhythm many widows find supportive looks like this:
noticing small, everyday moments that don’t hurt
returning to a few big anchors that have carried you over time
Noticing doesn’t mean celebrating.
It just means allowing your brain to register something neutral or good without arguing with it.
Over time, this kind of practice helps different parts of the brain work together more smoothly. It creates small shifts—less looping, a little more breath, a little more space.
This isn’t about pretending life is okay.
It’s about helping your brain remember that goodness still exists in the middle of grief.
And sometimes, that’s enough for today.
GOAL 4 - Try listing 12 small gratefuls from the last 24 hours — little things you are thankful fo. And list 3 BIG gratefuls over the span of your life. Make a daily practice of this.
5. Move in ways that help grief move
Grief lives in the body.
Unprocessed emotion often shows up as tension, fatigue, pain, illness or restlessness. Thoughts loop. Emotions and experiences get stuck.
And surprisingly, movement doesn’t have to be an intense workout to be effective.
Walking. Stretching. Dancing. A gentle rhythm. Breathing while moving.
Somatic practices help emotions complete their cycle instead of lodging inside the body. Over time, movement can soften anxiety, bring clarity, and help your system release what it’s been holding.
In 2026, let movement be about listening, relaxing + releasing—not pushing.
6. Connection of the heart
Grief isolates in quiet ways.
Not always because people leave—but because it becomes harder to know how to share what’s real. You don’t want to overwhelm anyone. You don’t want to manage their reactions. Sometimes you don’t even know where to start.
Connection doesn’t have to mean a crowd.
It might be one trusted friend.
It might be a small grief group.
It might be intentional conversation where honesty is welcome and fixing or resolving is not the goal.
Grief moves differently when it’s witnessed. When it is held with care and kindness.
This is the heart behind The Widow’s Table Challenge—a six-week invitation into intentional, grief-informed conversation for widows and the friends who want to love them well.
No platitudes.
No pressure.
Just space to speak and be heard.
If you want more information on this sign up for the newsletter below. It will be coming out in January.
7. Letting your love go somewhere again
One of the quieter, less recognized, losses in widowhood is this:
your love suddenly has nowhere to go.
Your encouragement.
Your care.
Your tenderness.
Many widows unconsciously tuck this away, believing it’s safer not to offer too much of themselves. Or believing they don’t have the energy or will to offer it.
But we were created to love others. Love that has nowhere to go doesn’t disappear—it turns inward and grows heavy.
Letting your love go somewhere again doesn’t mean getting into a romantic relationship, or over-giving, or rescuing. It simply means allowing the gift of you, or something you have to offer, to be shared in a way that feels safe and life-giving.
Love is still a part of who you are. What you still carry and still have to offer.
And someone, somewhere, in this broken world needs what God has given you to offer.
Something thoughtful, something small, or big. A kind word, a thoughtful card, a meal…
2026 Goal - make a weekly pattern of giving some love and encouragement from your heart to another.
A word about time - Schedule it, write it down.
Grief has a way of distorting time.
Days blur.
Weeks slip by.
Months pass and you wonder where they went. And change can be hard.
This is where writing things down can be quietly powerful—not to track progress, but to help your brain light up. What fires together, wires together.
Journaling your grief experiences, recording your daily gratefuls, planning your weekly gives, or simply recording small rhythms can help anchor meaning in a season that often feels scattered.
This mattered.
I mattered.
This moment counted.
A gentle invitation
If this resonated, recognize that you’re not behind.
You noticed, you’re paying attention, and you are headed into new areas.
Through my newsletter, I share:
Grief Nook setup ideas
Somatic practices for nervous system care
Journal rhythms that don’t add pressure
Science-informed grief support
Details about The Widow’s Table Challenge
No fixing.
No rushing.
Just thoughtful + kind care for yourself in the wake of deep loss.
You are so welcome here. Just as you are.
And you’re welcome at the table.
Widows, do you need help moving beyond survival mode? Here are 7 steps you can make a priority in 2026.
Widowhood impacts the brain, body, faith, and relationships in profound ways that often go unseen. This grief-informed reflection offers widows practical and compassionate guidance for life after the loss of a husband, including nervous system support, somatic grief practices, spiritual connection with Jesus, honest relationships, and community care. Written for widows seeking meaning beyond survival, this article explores holistic grief support, faith after loss, and relational healing through intentional practices and safe connection. Additional resources, including grief journaling, Grief Nook setup, somatic tools, and the Widow’s Table Challenge, are available through ongoing support shared by the author.
Why Christmas Hits Widows So Hard (And What Your Body Is Actually Experiencing)
Christmas is meant to feel warm and connected—but for many widows it feels loud, exposing, and heavy. This grief-informed reflection explains why the holidays hit so hard after loss, and what’s really happening in the body, brain, and heart.
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
Grief makes your world small, tight, and closed in. But something sacred happens when you step into someone else’s story. This raw, honest reflection invites widows into healing through empathy, witness, and the gentle ways God moves through our brokenness.
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.
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.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.”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.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.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.
Widow Life: The Distance Found in the Holiday Mist of Cheer.
For the widow who feels flat, forgotten, or unsure where she belongs this Christmas. A tender, grief-informed reflection on why the holidays feel so heavy—and five gentle ways to move through the season with honesty and care.
For the widow who feels flat, forgotten, or unsure if she still belongs.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know something from the start—you’re not ALONE.
There is a distance that can settle in this time of year. You can feel it before you can give it words—somewhere between the first Christmas commercial and the neighbor hanging lights. The whole world shifts into a season of wonder and expectation, and somehow, it creates a widening gap between you and everyone else.
The holidays permeate everything with “magic” and “joy.”
And grief—your grief—seems to move in the opposite direction. Holiday grief hits in ways you can’t prepare for. Christmas grief has its own weight, its own sting, its own silence.
It leaves you feeling isolated. Detached. And if you’re anything like me… sometimes flat.
Not bubbling over with emotion. Not tender and sentimental. Just… less. Less feeling, not more. Less capacity, not more. Less sparkle, less warmth, less of whatever you think you “should” be bringing to this season.
In a world shouting MORE—more family, more events, more decorating, more expectations, more giving, more love on display—you become painfully aware that you have MUCH less to offer. And it makes you start to wonder if you’re even wanted as you currently are.
And if any of this is describing you, breathe. You are not the only widow feeling this way during the holidays. This season awakens a specific kind of ache that deserves to be named, understood, and honored—not hidden.
Because here’s the truth many widows silently carry: for the first time, you wonder if you even belong in your own family anymore. Nothing fits the way it used to. Nothing feels familiar. Part of you is missing, and the part of you that balanced the whole room isn’t there anymore.
Grief has a way of making you feel like you’ve slipped outside the frame of your own life. You watch everyone else move forward while you’re learning how to live with a permanent tear in the fabric of your world. And I know how lonely that place can feel.
So let me say some of the things you may not have words for yet—things widows often feel but rarely speak.
Five Real Thoughts Widows Carry About Not Fitting Anymore
Being a widow brings a lot of thoughts and feelings with it. Navigating the truth and the holidays is possible.
“I feel like the heavy one now.”
Like your presence shifts the room and everyone can feel the ache you try so hard to tuck away.“I worry I suck the joy out of everything.”
You don’t want to. You don’t mean to. But you see the energy change and you blame yourself.“I’m not the same without him… and I don’t know who I am now.”
He was your balance, your grounding, your mirror. Without him, everything feels off-center.“I don’t feel like I fit in my own family anymore.”
Not because they’ve rejected you—but because the dynamic changed when half of you went missing.“I feel too much and not enough at the exact same time.”
Too emotional. Too quiet. Too exhausted. Not joyful enough. Not okay enough. Just… wrong somehow.
If any of that sounds like you, friend… I see you. Truly.
And here is what I need you to hear with your whole heart: none of these thoughts make you weak. None of these feelings make you a burden. They make you human. They make you real. They make you a woman who loved deeply and lost profoundly.
But hear me: that tear in your life doesn’t disqualify you from love.
It doesn’t exile you from your future story.
It doesn’t erase your place at the table.
You’re still here.
And your presence still carries weight—sacred weight the world doesn’t always understand.
Because the way you hold love and loss at the same time?
That is holy ground.
You may feel on the outside looking in, unsure where you fit or how to step into spaces you once entered so naturally. But you are not lost. You are not forgotten. You are not too broken to belong.
You don’t have to perform your way back into the room.
You don’t have to decorate the ache.
You don’t have to twist yourself into something lighter or easier.
Honesty is enough.
Your presence—even tired, quiet, or undone—is enough.
You belong. You are still breathing, still loving, still showing up inside a life you never asked for. That is not weakness. That is sacred strength.
And even if this season feels fractured and unfamiliar, there is still room for you—your truth, your sorrow, your tenderness, your whole story—right here, right now.
Just as you are. Always.
Five Ideas for Navigating the Holidays When You’re Grieving
If you’re looking for ways to move through the next few weeks with honesty, meaning, and supportive connection, here are five quiet and doable ideas. They don’t require you to pretend or perform. They don’t require energy you don’t have. They’re simply small invitations toward real and raw comfort and safety.
Choose one friend from your Circle of Support and ask for a moment for real talk.
Maybe just one true sentence: “This is how I’m doing / feeling today.” Ask if they’d sit with you for a moment this week. No fixing. No pressure. Just presence. Sometimes being witnessed is the deepest relief.Create a small, meaningful ritual at home—just for you.
Light a candle. Say his name. Whisper a memory. Invite Jesus into the quiet. Even two minutes of time like this can soften the deep ache enough to release some grief tension and keep you going.Give yourself an “opt-in” holiday moment.
Skip the big gatherings if you need to. Choose something small—a drive to see lights, a warm drink with someone safe, a slow walk. Give yourself permission to leave early or change your mind if your heart shifts.Release your mental load onto paper.
Your brain is carrying silent weight. Write down every worry, fear, and trigger. This helps both sides of your brain to work together and process more fully. Let it become your prayer: “Jesus, be here with me.” - maybe you want to hold it with care in your journal or maybe you want to toss it in the fire and release it.Create meaning, not performance.
You don’t need a whole tree or a whole house decorated. Choose one grounding thing: a single ornament that represents something meaningful, a Scripture, a song, a cup of hot chocolate. Meaning does not require intensity. Sometimes sitting in softness is the bravest choice you can make.
Know this, I am praying for you. Wherever you are, whatever you are feeling: hope-filled, weary, nervous, numb… begin by recognizing it. Allow it to be recognized and respected. Grief is hard. Carrying love and loss is hard. Take small steps of bravery to allow your natural process. I know God is with you in this chapter and the ones yet to come. He is writing something beautiful now, and in the days ahead.
Sending you so much love,
Kimber
If you’re navigating grief during the holidays, especially as a widow or someone who has lost a spouse, you’re not alone. Many women experience a deep sense of loneliness, disorientation, and not belonging during Christmas and the winter season. This post offers honest support for holiday grief, Christmas sadness, widowhood, and the quiet ache that shows up when family gatherings and traditions look different after loss. If you’re looking for help with feeling out of place, grieving at Christmas, missing your person, or finding gentle ways to care for yourself during the holidays, you’ll find guidance, grounding practices, and compassionate encouragement here. These reflections are written for widows, grievers, and anyone carrying loss into December—offering language, validation, and hope for the season you’re in.
Why It’s Hard to Be Friends with a Widow (and How to Stay Anyway)
Grief doesn’t just change us — it changes our friendships too. One day you’re sharing life with people who knew you “before,” and the next, you’re learning how to stay connected through loss. Here’s why it’s hard to be friends with a widow — and what love looks like when you stay.
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.
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Where Love Still Lives | A Modern Lament of Loss + Remembering
In this modern lament, I share my honest journey through loss and love — how grief reshaped me, and how love still lives within all that remains. You’re invited to write your own modern lament and discover the raw beauty of loved lived out after you lost someone.
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
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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.
A cancer widow's tale: When words fall short but LOVE doesn't.
Lament, sorrow, pain. Sometimes we allow ourselves to go there, sit there, feel it. Other times it presses in like a vice grip on our brains. Yesterday, was a vice grip day as I was standing in the kitchen. My mind uncontrollably reeling, revisiting all kinds of thoughts. Honestly, considering conversations that never were. A new reality of deep grief was forming due to a lack of conversation.
Why didn't Dave talk to me about it?
Why didn't he give me advice, permission, his wishes, and why didn't he give me a goodbye letter. He gave each of our kids one. Why not me?
And as for me....
Why didn't I scream at cancer in his face?
Why didn't I cry out in front of him that I didn't want him to leave me?
Why didn't I beg for him to tell me everything my ears and heart so badly wanted to hear from him? WHY?????
I was asking God this yesterday in my extremely vulnerable state. I had been on the verge of tears (or full-out bawling) the entire day.
As I was standing in the kitchen facing the cupboards, for who knows how long, mind sloshing away in the grief sludge. Why? … and God, clear as DAY, told me "That was you LOVING HIM WELL. That was you loving him in the most sacrificial form there is." You see, I needed SO MUCH MORE. I needed words, I needed to hear his heart for me. I needed him to tell me I was going to be okay. I needed him to tell me everything he wanted me to do and to say with the kids from here on out. I got none of it, not one word. What I did get was a simple look of content, over + over again.
Decades of marriage with him proved I could easily have forced him to talk to me.... so why didn't I? Why did I sit there in a state of quiet and calm when in truth I so desperately longed for words. Because I LOVED HIM so DESPERATELY. I didn't press or demand... I sat in his process with him. I allowed him to do it his way. No, WE did it his way together. I followed his lead, and he held tight to his HOPE.
So many tell me they can't believe the tremendous faith we had through it all. Yes, we did. But I think perhaps they are confusing what they witnessed as faith when in reality a lot of it was Dave’s positive mindset, and perhaps even a touch of denial. They think because we didn't post about the struggle, fears, and appearance of a gloomy outcome that we believed 100% he would be healed. I don't think any of us stood on that ground, but hope was always on the fringes. My husband was few on words but the ones he did choose to speak were full of life, hope, and days to come. Any others were unspoken.
Everything in my nature would have screamed for answers, and real talk, but somehow in the thick of our 14 month long chaos of chemo, radiation and unsuccessful bone marrow transplant, God gave me a supernatural ability to die to self. I am so grateful for that now. We did did it our way, we did our best, we loved well. Sometimes love looks like action, and sometimes love looks like quiet. Real words may have fallen short but love was more than evident in the chosen QUIET.
When words fall short but LOVE doesn’t.
The Unexpected in Widowhood: Learning to trust.
My mornings are such a mix these days. They range from waking with head pressure, sometimes angst, maybe a song, all the way to out and out enthusiasm. But I am not so far away from the brutal slap of widowed reality + gasp for oxygen mornings, sleepless nights, to forget their sting. They were my unwelcomed morning ritual for, well, far too long to count. I will say they were there long enough, they were consistent enough for me to be able rise and recognize the feeling of freedom without their presence. And today it has brought to me a place of such deep gratefulness.
Today was one of those days. This morning I woke up with words of thanks spouting from my lips. I found myself standing up + speaking out loud from my heart:
“God, I LOVE you. Thank you for that. Thank you for loving me and for helping me to know you. Like really, KNOW you and TRUST you. Thank you for having a plan for my life. A good plan. Thank you for the people you have put around me in my life, to help remind me and to spur me on. Thank you that you are teaching me that I can trust myself .“ SCREECHING HALT…. ummmmm, wait … WHAT did I just claim? And when did that happen?
See, since Dave passed away this sneaky little distrust in myself began to grow. As time continued to separate me from the life I had lived with my husband I found myself questioning more and more of my abilities: my decision-making processes, my feelings, the filters I run info through, my ability to show up. I began to feel this weird weight of scrutiny pressing on me. And I found myself wondering just where did this mental onslaught stem from? Because I was pretty sure a lot of it was in my head.
Through time + much thought, I have come to the conclusion that there were some key voices that spoke into the spaces of my falsely held beliefs.
1- Well-intentioned people questioning my process.
2- The void where his voice once spoke to bring balancing opinions + thoughts.
3- History. All the voices of my past failures magnified by the risk of facing future ones alone.
4- The whispers of the enemy, “You can’t do it.”
The sheer volume of these voices spinning on repeat in my head would hit me at different times throughout the day, although I will say this… I think they were probably on constant replay. I think I was just busy putting every ounce of my subconscious mental energy into drowning them out. However, it took its toll + somewhere between 2-4pm my brain would just want to shut off with my body closely wanting to follow. About that time the nerves would fire up to keep me in motion until bedtime. And throughout the evening and upon rising I would have a spontaneous electrical dance responding to those voices until I stood up to drown them out that following morning. And repeat.
But somehow scattered here and there I found space to sit with Jesus,
even when I didn’t feel like I had a drop of energy to personally show up. My sordid past had already proven His immense love for me + I knew I could trust him to show up even when I couldn’t muster much strength. I just needed a willing heart to try.
And as I started to implement some simple steps with my Being Known time I would find Jesus asking me morning after morning… “I know you don’t trust yourself, but DO YOU TRUST ME?” Yes, Jesus, I do, completely.” And in my journey with him this last year He has shown me SO MUCH about the voices I was tipping my head to, the things that were holding my gaze. It matters much. And with his simple questions + his deep love, my mind has been able to identify some of the faulty wiring + naturally I am beginning to respond out of more of his truth.
In the course of that, I have fallen SO deeply in love with Jesus, right in the thick of my painful process. The very thing that took a swing at me with the intention of taking me out resulted in shifting my position + opening my view to THE ONE who would steady my stance by wrapping his loving arms around me, holding me tightly, looking straight into my eyes, while asking me the question over and over again until I believed it to my very core:
“Kim, do you trust me?”
I do. If ever I trust anything, it is YOU!
My journey is still long. I have much to still discover BUT for today I am so grateful to recognize that although I won’t ever have all the right answers on my own, I do know the ONE who does. And we are tight, like really tight. In fact, he adores me.
This song:
LOVE YOURSELF
by Justin Bieber + modified lyrics by Tanner Townsend, it gets me every single time I listen to it. Close your eyes + wrap the words around your heart and mind.
“For all the times that you feel so alone
And when you don't know where to turn or to go
You think you're too far gone, you've made your last mistake
You think I'm lying test me, kneel down and pray
'Cause Gods got a plan for you
Listen to the spirit there's too many
Different voices, block out all the noises
I'm singing that I know it's true
And if you think you're worthless, I just want to help you know that
You're still good, don't look back
And the Father loves you, and he loves everyone
And I'd invite you to pray through His Son
We get so caught up in our day, we forget to kneel and pray
Yes I know that you are never on your own
If you could see the way He sees your soul
Then maybe you could learn to love yourself
And if you start to hear the still small voice
Then maybe you could go and trust yourself
And if you start to feel that all your hope is lost
Remember Jesus died on Calvary's Cross
He suffered all the pains and hopelessness you'll see
So you can break the chains and start to be free
'Cause Gods got a plan for you
Listen to the spirit there's too many
Different voices, block out all the noises
I'm singing that I know it's true
And if you think you're worthless, I just want to help you know that
You're still good, don't look back
And the Father loves you, and he loves everyone
And I'd invite you to pray through His Son
We get so caught up in our day, we forget to kneel and pray
Yes I know that you are never on your own
If you could see the way He sees your soul
Then maybe you could learn to love yourself
And if you start to hear the still small voice
Then maybe you should go and trust yourself
For all the times that I know, you feel small
Just take His hand, and He will help you stand tall
And if you hold fast to the rod and don't lose sight
Then you can know that it will end up alright
And the Father loves you, and he loves everyone
And I'd invite you to pray through His Son
We get so caught up in our day, we forget to kneel and pray
Yes I know, that you are never on your own
If you could see the way He sees your soul
Then maybe you could learn to love yourself
And if you start to hear the still small voice
Maybe you should learn to love yourself”
When grief tries to steal, don't believe it.
F A M I L Y
Hold them tight, cherish the moments, because you just never know.
This photo is missing a key player from it. The one that stood at the helm to navigate our course and he was the one who knew where to drop the anchor that steadied us in a safe harbor.
Honestly, he was my grounding person. I am the dreamer, the planner, the visionary, the creative force, the spontaneous let's go girl. And he was my, (what I often called), dream squasher. Haha. He brought all the practical into any situation that presented itself. "Okay Kim, so "HOW" are we going to do that?" At the time I didn't give the process the respect it deserved. I need that in my life to help me look at both sides of the same coin.
I miss that.
I miss him.
We all do.
There is SO MUCH that has changed + there is SO MUCH that we miss. There is SO MUCH that we have processed + SO MUCH MORE to work through. We have experienced quite the trauma during the process of fighting to lose, and in the defeat of cancer, we have been left with a thick residual of heavy grief.
BUT we have learned SO MUCH.
This is the gold in the story. This is where God redeems the broken. He doesn't rewrite stories, he adds on to them... bringing new strength, growth, or light in response to what happened. We can count on this. He never leaves us where we are at, He always has things to show us and places to take us. We just can't let ourselves lose sight of him in the process. EVEN IF it means just barely cracking one eye open-enough to squint in his direction. Or one cracky whisper of "You're here, right God? I'm not alone, even though every ounce of me feels like it."
"Yes baby girl, I'm right here. I haven't taken my eye off of you for one single second. I love you so much + I know how deeply you are hurting. Someday you'll be able to walk again... for now just find rest in the knowledge I am here + I am fighting for you."
That right there is what has carried me to this point. Knowing my God is here, and true to his word. He will never leave me and never forsake me... and I have just got to believe that because my, what I thought was “FOREVER LOVE” did leave me. Not by his own doing but never the less, he is gone. And that messes with a girl's mind + heart on all sorts of levels.
I have SO MUCH MORE to say on this. But for now I just wanted to stop on in with a quick update and encourage anyone who is suffering immense loss. YOU AREN'T ALONE... EVER. Not even in your darkest nights. YOU are being fought for and guess what... he already won! I pray you can find some peace and some rest in that.
YOU are loved,
