05/26/2026
Some mornings, the anxiety hits before my feet even touch the floor.
It’s like my body wakes up and remembers all over again that this is real. That he’s gone. And for a few seconds, I feel frozen. Completely paralyzed by the weight of it all.
The thoughts come flooding in before I can even catch my breath.
How am I supposed to do this life without him?
How do I carry this kind of grief and still show up for Gabriel?
How do I keep pretending I know what I’m doing when most days I feel like I’m barely holding myself together?
People ask me, “How are you?” and my answer lately has simply been… “here.”
Because honestly, that’s the truth.
I’m here.
Some days I’m functioning. Some days I’m smiling for my son. Some days I’m answering emails, showing up to events, trying to create some version of normalcy. But underneath all of it is this ache that never really leaves.
Grief is consuming. It follows you into the quiet moments, into crowded rooms, into the middle of the night when your mind won’t stop racing. It lives in the pit of your stomach, in the heaviness in your chest, in the exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.
And there’s this unspoken pressure to be “strong.”
Strong for your child.
Strong for your family.
Strong for everyone around you.
But the truth is… I don’t feel strong most days.
I feel heartbroken.
I feel anxious.
I feel scared of this life I never imagined having to live without him in it.
I miss the ordinary things the most. The sound of him walking through the door. The conversations in the kitchen. The way he made everything feel safe and familiar. The life we built together for 19 years.
Sometimes I still catch myself thinking this has to be a nightmare I’ll wake up from.
But even in all this pain, one thing I know for certain is that what we had was real. A love so deep that losing him feels like losing a part of myself.
So if you ask me how I’m doing…
I’m here.
Taking it breath by breath. Day by day. Trying my best to keep going. 🤍
