A New Era Awaits...

For me, each year, the period between December 31st, which is the birthday date of my late husband, Russell, and the date of his death, February 7th, is a weird liminal space in which I feel suspended in time.

Every year it feels like forever and only yesterday since he’s been gone, and it’s especially so this year because it’s a significant number: fifteen.

It is fifteen years since my husband took his last breath.

I write that statement with incredulity. Yesterday and forever is how it feels, but it is quantifiably fifteen years.

Death tattoos me with its indelible signature that I must learn to wear with honour. I didn’t request it or design it, but it was forced on me anyway. The choice is mine: either I fashion it daily, or I let it leach into every crevice of my being like an indecipherable black stain.

I do both.

I’ve often thought that grief is a gift given to us as humans to help us process the shock of death. In the early years, there were days when I felt brave and strong, armoured against its raw pain. But just when I thought I had this new life journey under control, I would become paralysed by a weight of tears that kept me pinned to my bed.

This appears to be the nature of grieving. It ebbs and surges according to our individual capacity.

And then, eventually, it lessens.

And I find myself able to breathe again.

And I realise that this is it: I’m in my forties with possibly as many years left to live. What will I do with them? Obviously, I’m going to have to rethink everything. That’s both agonising because it’s not what I want and terrifying because I’m suddenly alone.

But perhaps, there’s also the flutter of anticipation if I don’t allow myself to feel guilty because grief is complicated and can so easily bring guilt as a companion. Why should I get to look forward to creating life while Russell is dead? And how can I possibly allow myself to enjoy it?

The answer to these last questions lies in the greatest foundational emotion: love.

Meeting Russell at 16 years of age, and losing him in my forties, means I had thirty years to experience how much he loved me, adored me, and wanted the best for me. This became ingrained in my DNA. Even though he is no longer with me, I know he wants life for me because of this love. And I want to live a full life for him because otherwise, I’m wasting the years I am gifted, which in some intangible way seems to compound the bleak fact that he didn’t receive this gift too.  

The past fifteen years have been this journey. A rough, stumbling track with sections of even surface. Learning to feel safe again - that’s been a big one to implement. Overcoming the fear that I will forget how much I’ve been loved and have loved in return. Taking full responsibility for my decisions as I design, and implement, a future from the debris of my broken dreams.

Stevie Nicks sings: I’ve been afraid of changing because I built my life around you. But time makes us bolder; even children get older, and I’m getting older too.

Every time I hear these beautiful, haunting lyrics, it is as if they were written for me.

Because the biggest challenge has been believing I can do this, and then having the courage to create a life at variance to how I imagined. I’ve felt the dichotomy of doing one thing while yearning to be doing something else entirely. It’s part of rewiring my brain into a different neural landscape that will allow me to flourish.

Because that is what I’m choosing.

To Flourish.

Some days it may not look nor feel like it, but if I continue to keep my focus here, I notice the many opportunities and the beauty that life offers. It keeps me encouraged when it feels as if I’ve stuffed up decisions I’ve made or possibilities I’ve missed. I’m learning to give myself grace.

For some reason, this year has a sense of new beginnings. I feel as if I’ve crossed over into fresh terrain that I’ve not yet walked. I’m leaving a wasteland and entering a wonderland. The past fifteen years have taught me to intentionally look for awe and wonder, even on the darkest days. Perhaps I’ve finally forged that particular neural pathway.

I’ve also learned not to analyse too deeply but to accept and be thankful. Continually developing a grateful lens has held me in good stead. It allows me to appreciate all that I’ve had rather than regret all that is lost. It shifts my focus forward while supporting me to be present.

It builds hope for a future that will be different from how I imagined fifteen years ago but one that will be equally meaningful.

Bring. It. On.