Widowhood Journeys

After Alex died, signs became tiny lifelines: dimes, repeating numbers, cardinals landing right where I needed them. The day I saw “55” on Ian’s license plate, I knew Alex was still guiding me, reminding me that love doesn’t disappear; it just finds new ways to reach us. This is how I learned to trust those signs and how you can too.

Thanksgiving was Alex’s favorite holiday, and celebrating it without him once felt unbearable. I remember sneaking away to cry that first year, just trying to survive the day. Six years later, I still miss those small traditions, but I’ve learned this: gratitude doesn’t erase grief. You can miss him deeply and still find tiny moments of goodness—a warm cup of coffee, a memory, a bit of sunlight.

Just six weeks after Alex died, I stood at a fall festival held in his honor. Cold air, firepits, and a community showing up with love. I gave a short speech and posted the video once. Then, the video began reposting itself—3 to 5 times a day—for a week. The last repost? On Alex’s birthday. His first in Heaven. I wasn’t looking for a sign, but I got one. It felt like a wink from him. A gift. And I choose to believe love still finds a way.

A widow’s reflection on carrying love forward one ritual at a time. Just like grief isn't linear, neither are birthdays. In two days, Alex would be 47 years old. It has been seven years since we saw him blow out his birthday candles celebrating another trip around the sun. His last birthday was a fond memory. He was getting impatient, running a few errands with a friend because he had to get paint for our house. Watching him walk through the firehall doors, his face lit up in

A therapist and widow shares her journey through grief, healing, and rediscovering life. An invitation to a space for widowed women who are ready to rediscover life even with grief still in the room.