A Letter to the Widow Who Can't See the Light Yet.

Content Warning: This post touches on the raw edges of early grief. The kind where living feels optional. If you're in that space, know this: I've been there. And I'm still here. And if you feel as though you’re in imminent danger, please call 911 or locate the nearest emergency room.

Dear Sister,

So I need to tell you something I said out loud once.

Something that might make you uncomfortable. But then again, maybe if you're early in this, it'll make you feel less alone because you might relate. 

Six months after Alex died, I told my sister I was ready to die.

I was not suicidal nor was I planning anything. I just felt done with my life.

I was sitting at her kitchen table, holding her newborn son who carries Alex's name as his middle name.

I casually said it:

"I'm ready to die. I don’t care what happens to me."

I told her I'd stay around for my kids. I'd wait until they were older and capable of taking care of themselves, but after that, I would be completely okay if God had other plans for me than resuming my life here. In other words, if it was my time, I'd be okay with it. After all, God had other plans for Alex. 

I heard the words coming out of my mouth and I can still see the look on my sister's face.

I don't remember if I was crying, but I remember the weight of what I'd just confessed. I remember seeing my sister in tears hearing the pain in my words.

I felt that my feelings were justified.

My identity (wife) had been ripped away.

My best friend.

My soulmate.

The person I spent most of my life with was no longer by my side.

And I was pretty sure I would not recover from this. 

Ever.

If You Feel This Way Right Now, You're Not Broken

You. Are. Not. Weak.

And. You. Are. Not. Failing. At. Grief.

You are surviving a rupture so profound, your nervous system doesn't know how to orient itself anymore. This was my experience.

I mean, when the person you built your life around just disappears, it's not just emotional. It's existential.

Yep, the world doesn't make sense. You don’t feel as though you belong.

And your body doesn't feel like yours anymore. It feels like a shell.

The idea of "moving forward" feels like a betrayal.

Actually it feels impossible. 

So yeah, sometimes, the thought of just not being here anymore feels like relief.

Again, I'm not here to shame that feeling.

Actually, I'm here to tell you that I had it too.

I was just like you.

What I Didn't Know Then But I Do Now

It's been almost six and a half years since Alex died and I'm managing way differently now.

I can laugh. I can hold grief and love in the same space. I can look back at that visit with my sister, a new mother starting her journey while I was in the middle of checking out, and I can see how far I've come.

Honestly, grief hasn't left me either. It walks with me every single day.

I think about Alex all the time. I miss him and tell him so every day still.

But, you know, I've also learned to appreciate the opportunities I've been given since his death. The people who've come into my life since then. Some who are still here and even some who’ve quietly closed the door and moved on.

I’ve accepted that all of this is okay and maybe it is because I’ve put in the work.

I asked for help.

I stayed open to the idea that there could be more than this.

And slowly that spark reignited.

You Don't Have to See the Future Yet

If you're reading this and you're in that early, suffocating fog that grief tosses you in, 

I want you to know you don't have to believe me right now.

And honestly, you don't have to see the light, "have faith,” "trust the process" or any of that. It might be gibberish to you right now and that is okay. 

What I ask for you to do,

if anything,

is to

just breathe.

I hold onto your hope, if you cannot.  The hope that you stay curious about what's on the other side of this moment.

I am not not talking about tomorrow or next year either.

Just this moment.

The Work Isn't About "Getting Over It"

I want you to know that I didn't heal by letting go of Alex.

I’ll never let him go. 

I healed by learning how to carry my grief differently.

I gave myself permission to grieve and laugh in the same breath if I wanted to and I  understood that my nervous system needed support, not shame.

I used tools that honored both my pain and my spirit. I leaned into Reiki, meditation, tapping, breathwork, and the openness to connecting with Alex.

This work isn't about moving on.

I can’t say that enough.

It's about moving forward with your person, with your grief, and with your whole, tender heart.

If You're in "That Kitchen Table Moment" Right Now

I want you to know that I see you. I can hear your sobs and sense that hesitation to want to see another day without your person. 

I sure as hell won't tell you it gets easier either.

But I will tell you it changes.

And if you're willing to put in the work which is to ask for help, to stay open, to honor both the ache and the possibility of there being more for you to experience in this crazy world, you might just find that the spark hasn’t quite gone out either.

It's just waiting for you to breathe enough space around it to ignite it once again.

What Helped Me When Nothing Else Could

I'm not going to give you a checklist here, but I will tell you what kept me tethered when I was close to unraveling completely:

1. I let myself say it out loud.

I told my sister. I told my therapist. I told the widows in my support group.

Not because I needed someone to fix it, but because keeping it inside made it heavier.

Saying "I don't want to be here anymore" doesn't make you dangerous.

It makes you honest.

And sometimes, honesty is the only thing that keeps you from drowning.

2. I stopped pretending I was okay.

I gave myself permission to be a mess.

Which looked like crying in the grocery store. To cancel plans last minute. And even sit in the dark and just be.

Your body is trying to survive a trauma. 

Let it.

3. I started talking to Alex.

It was not in a "let me move on" way.

It was in a "you're still here, and I need you" way.

I wrote letters. I lit candles. I asked for signs.

And he showed up.

It wasn’t in the way I wanted, but in the way I needed.

It affirmed that Alex is here with me, always.

4. I let my body lead.

When talking felt impossible, I moved.

I dabbled in slow yoga. I went for walks outside on my property. I would place my hands over my heart and breathe.

I trusted that my body knew what my mind couldn't process yet.

The Truth About "Putting in the Work"

People say it like it's a choice you make once.

Like you wake up one day and decide:

Okay, I'm going to heal now.

But that's not how it works.

The actual work is showing up on the days you don't want to.

It's asking for help when you'd rather isolate.

It's letting someone hold space for you when you can't hold it yourself.

It's choosing one small thing or action when everything in you wants to shut down.

I believe the work isn't heroic, but humble, rather.

And it's okay if you're not ready yet.

What I Want You to Know If You're "Still in the Dark"

You don't owe anyone your healing timeline.

Remember, grief has no timeline. Same goes for healing!

You don't have to "get better" for your kids, your family, or anyone else.

But if there's even a tiny part of you that's curious about what's on the other side of this,

Stay.

Not because you have to.

Not because it's the "right" thing to do.

But because you deserve to see what happens when grief stops being the only thing you feel.

You deserve to laugh again without guilt.

To feel joy without betrayal.

To build a life that honors both who you were with him and who you're becoming without him.

Six and a Half Years Later, Here's What I Know

Grief doesn't leave, but it does soften.

It becomes less of a tidal wave and more of a rhythm you learn to move with.

I still miss Alex every single day.

But I also love my life now.

I love the work I do.

The people I've met.

The version of myself I've grown into.

And I couldn't have told you that was possible when I was sitting at that kitchen table, holding my nephew, ready to go home.

But here I am.

Still here.

Still grieving.

Still living.

If You Need Help Right Now

If you're in crisis, please reach out:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 988

Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741

And if you're not in crisis, but you're in that suffocating, "I don't know how to keep doing this" space, please know you don't have to do it alone.

I work with widows who are exactly where you are right now.

Women who are tired of pretending they're okay.

Women who need someone to see them and not fix them.

If that's you, let's talk.

Book A No Pressure Consultation Call With Me!

Final Points to Make

This blog post contains vulnerable, personal reflections on grief and loss. If you're in the early stages of widowhood or experiencing intense grief, some of the content may feel activating or emotionally heavy.

Please know:

• I am not a crisis counselor. If you're experiencing suicidal thoughts or need immediate support, please reach out to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 988 or text HOME to 741741 for the Crisis Text Line.

• This is not medical or psychiatric advice. I'm a licensed mental health counselor sharing my personal experience and professional insights, but this content does not replace individualized therapy, counseling, or medical care.

• Your grief is your own. What I share here reflects my journey and my work with clients. Your timeline, your feelings, and your path forward are uniquely yours. There's no "right" way to grieve.

• I use holistic and spiritual tools. My approach integrates traditional therapy with energy work, meditation, and spiritual practices. If that's not your framework, take what resonates and leave what doesn't.

  
  

Most importantly: If something in this post stirs something deep, honor that.

Pause.

Breathe.

Reach out to someone safe.

You don't have to walk this alone.

-Jac

Jaclyn Hoffman is a licensed mental health counselor, widow, and grief coach who helps widowed women navigate loss without losing themselves. She actually deems herself as a grief alchemist.

With over 20 years in the mental health field, Jaclyn's real education in grief came in October 2019 when her high school sweetheart and husband, Alex, died unexpectedly. That loss cracked her open and everything she thought she knew about supporting people in grief got rewritten. She doesn't treat grief like a problem to fix or a timeline to follow. Instead, she blends traditional counseling with holistic modalities including brainspotting, EMDR, IADC, Reiki, meditation, EFT, sound therapy, and spiritual practices to help widows heal in a way that honors both the ache and the emergence.

Jaclyn works with widowed women who feel untethered after loss, are quietly longing to reclaim their identity, peace, and purpose, want to stay meaningfully connected to the love they lost without guilt, and are ready to discover that grief and joy can coexist. Beyond her work, she's a mom to two teenage boys and to fur baby Zen, is in a loving new relationship, and is a homesteader with chickens, sheep, and bees. She loves to travel, glamp in her RV, and spend time outdoors, whether at the beach or in the mountains, she finds refuge in the outdoors. Her mission is to challenge the stigmas around widowhood and help women understand that they can move forward with grief, not on from it and that living and loving life again isn't a betrayal, but a birthright.