Shortly after Dan died, Julie showed up at my door. She sat with me and assured me that, while I wouldn’t believe her now, things would get better. Julie was one of the few people who could get away with saying that without it being a useless platitude. She was a few months ahead of me in losing both husband and father. She alone had the street cred to tell me to hang in there and promise that I’d want to live again.
And she was right. I didn’t believe her. I was drowning in grief and couldn’t comprehend anything different. I nodded, thanked her for coming, and prayed that someday I’d have it as pulled together as she did.
And she was right. It was long and painful but it did get better.
Today marks eight months since that horrible morning. 243 days on this grief journey. 5832 hours of recovery. And it is better. There are more good days than train wrecks. I find myself dreaming about the future again. Things I’d lost…my smile, laughter and hope have resurfaced.
So now it’s my turn to share. To all the new W’s out there, it does get better. I promise.
The Wandering Widow