8 Universal Life Lessons from the Other Side of Everything
“What emerged wasn’t chaos. It was a code.”
After a life-altering event, you revisit everything.
Why us?
What if things had unfolded differently?
How will life look in ten years?
My therapist regularly reminds me not to ruminate. To instead halt the spiral with productive, constructive action. Reflection is healthy; rumination is not.
One truth landed immediately and unmistakably in the wake of my husband’s passing in April 2025: the strength and accuracy of my intuition. I felt it from the very beginning, even before I understood what it was. In those early weeks, I truly believed I was being carried - by God, perhaps, or even by some extension of my husband’s spirit.
And maybe I was.
I am a fervent believer in a benevolent God who carries me through life. I also have received very clear signs that my role in leading my family forward requires showing up in ways that are now solely mine to carry.
What I do know is this: the day I found my husband’s lifeless body, a deep, unwavering Knowing immediately emerged. I knew, without question, that I would be walking my children to school that first Monday back after spring break. I didn’t debate it. I didn’t outsource it. I simply knew.
I would show up every day. I would allow myself rest when needed. But I would shower, dress (well), and show my face - real, raw, and grounded in my best form.
At first, this felt akin to the famous poem, “Footprints in the Sand”. But it soon became clear that what I was experiencing wasn’t something new. It was something old I had quieted for years.
For years, I sat silently in conference rooms, only to hear someone else articulate what had been forming in my mind. For years, I withheld questions in classrooms for fear of appearing ignorant. For years, I muted myself in social settings when something didn’t quite add up, choosing seemingly safe comfort over clarity.
I was wrong to doubt myself.
I think back to the times I told my husband, “I don’t know how else to say this without sounding mean, but you simply don’t look well.” I convinced myself that my brilliant, physician husband was receiving the care he needed. I gaslit myself.
I was right - he wasn’t well.
People respond to loss in vastly different ways. Some fall apart. Some resign themselves to survival. And that is okay. It is okay to be an utter mess after tragedy.
In my case, God paired loss with a striking reintroduction between my Knowing and me. There was no longer a second opinion. I became rooted in a sense of truth I had long doubted. And yet, in this very human, three-dimensional life, that truth can still be tested, almost as if to see whether we will stay anchored in it.
This is where agency entered.
When Brian died, I knew a few things:
My children and I would be okay.
I had to show my children - beyond doubt - that we would be okay.
I had to return to the drawing board and reassess our values.
When you are stripped bare, you must choose and commit.
I began exercising exacting discernment about who and what remained in our lives. With young, sensitive children, there was no longer room for explanations or apologies. My obligation is first and foremost to my children and myself.
Loss peeled back every layer I once hid behind, leaving only truths I could no longer ignore. Enduring the unimaginable revealed what I’m truly made of.
What emerged wasn’t chaos. It was a code.
These are the lessons I’m carrying into 2026 and the rest of my life.
1. Your intuition is not a whisper. It is a lifeline.
Losing my husband stripped away the noise that I’d allowed to mute my own Knowing for years. When everything unnecessary fell away, what remained was unmistakable: my intuition was never dramatic or mystical. It was plain as day and simply true. It always had been.
I learned to stop questioning and minimize the clarity that arrived without explanation. I learned to stop outsourcing my Knowing to others who did not live inside my life.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering what might have happened if I had trusted myself sooner. And then I stop. I refuse to retro-gaslight myself. Instead, I thank God for the gift of discernment now. For the clarity I have today. For the chance to live forward, awake and aligned.
That deep whisper inside you or that undeniable uneasy feeling in your gut? They are both real and not an accident. You are extremely wise. Life is too precious (and way too short) to ignore the truth you already carry.
Listen to it. It will save you.
2. Don’t gaslight yourself.
“It’s not that bad.”
“I’m just sensitive.”
Or, in my case: “Others have had it worse.”
Nope.
Minimizing your experience is a quiet form of self-abandonment. It teaches you to devalue your own reality and treat your pain as negotiable. Being capable, informed, resourced, or resilient does not dilute trauma. I am all of these things, yet what I endured was still awful. Finding my husband’s body. Performing CPR. Then standing up that same day to face life with my children.
Pain does not become smaller because you are strong, and your worth is not measured against anyone else’s suffering.
If it hurt, it mattered. If it changed you, it deserves to be honored. Start by telling yourself the truth without minimizing it.
3. You’re as tough as you decide to be.
Enduring something awful doesn’t require you to fall apart. Some days it feels awkward to say that my children and I are doing well - as if we’re supposed to be struggling, as if thriving is a betrayal, or a dishonor to my late husband. It isn’t.
I knew on Day 1 that I didn’t want to be some sad, broken, abandoned widow, and this set everything on a particular path. I knew then that things wouldn’t ever again happen to me; they would happen around me.
This is where agency once again comes in. I tell my young children, almost weekly, that no one can make you feel a certain way. You choose how to feel, how to respond, how to be. That this choice is the greatest power we have, and it belongs entirely to us. On the flip side, how others fare is not our responsibility. We are not required to dim our healing to make someone else more comfortable.
Yes, my children and I are fortunate to be well resourced, surrounded by gifted therapists, counselors, and trusted advisors. But their support only matters if we show up. They can guide, but they cannot decide for us.
And the truth is this: we all know what is best for us. Choosing strength isn’t denial - it’s agency. It’s deciding how tough we want to be. Stop outsourcing your resilience and choose how you show up.
4. Don’t operate below your pay grade.
For a long time, I did exactly that.
I put my career on hold. For nearly 6 years, I was a good housewife and a stay-at-home mom. I softened my edges and became easier to accommodate - less imposing, less demanding, less me. This permeated other facets of my life.
All while the truth remained: I held two prestigious business degrees and had built a formidable career. This didn’t happen overnight, and my choice to stay home with my kids didn’t make me weak. But resulting dynamic revealed something I could no longer ignore: I stopped honoring my own value.
When my husband died, it became dangerously easy to stay in this place. Grief invites a quiet self-erasure. It’s easy to accept less (respect, consideration, alignment) because others assume you are fragile, delicate, and merely surviving. I saw this everywhere.
That was the inflection point. This experience could diminish me, or it could activate my strengths. The last eight months showed me exactly what I am capable of doing, and I will never be told otherwise. I will never make myself smaller, quieter, or cheaper to fit into a space that was never meant to hold me.
Operating below your pay grade doesn’t just cost you money or titles; it costs you identity. It teaches people how to treat you. I don’t need to be picked; I need to be matched. And so do you.
Look closely at where you are shrinking to fit or accepting less than you know you’re worth. The world doesn’t adjust until you do.
5. People-pleasing is an expensive tendency with no ROI.
Every “yes” has a cost - time, attention, emotional labor. In certain seasons, those costs compound. People-pleasing quickly becomes a terrible investment: it drains your limited margin and returns nothing of value.
People navigate hardship differently, and not all coping is constructive. For our family, there was only one sustainable path forward: God, family, community, and love. Anything (or anyone) that diverted us from that path was no longer an option - full stop.
That required discernment, restraint, and the willingness to prioritize our own stability, even when it made others uncomfortable.
People-pleasing blurs boundaries. Clarity restores them.
When I stopped shrinking to accommodate everyone else, something unexpected happened: I felt more alive and grounded than I had in years. My children changed. They became calmer, more secure, more themselves, because they could feel that I was standing firmly between them and anything that didn’t belong in our lives. Protecting our energy wasn’t indulgent. It was responsible. It was stewardship.
Some seasons call for generosity. Others call for precision.
Take inventory of your Yeses. Ask yourself which ones are aligned and which ones are simply expensive habits you’ve outgrown.
6. When you grow, not everything or everyone gets to come with you.
While I feel more myself than I have in years, I am also a completely new, evolved version of myself. And with evolution comes discernment: what once suited may no longer suit. This applies to habits, beliefs, philosophies, relationships, associations, interests, narratives, jobs, dreams - anything and everything that shapes a life.
It is critical to take honest inventory. When I finally did, our entire world transformed. It was like clearing a crowded closet so there is room for beautiful new pieces to arrive.
In our current chapter, our family’s relationships, routines, experiences, dreams, goals, and daily dialogue all serve one purpose: supporting the great, big, meaningful life I promised my children we would have, even without Brian with us in the flesh. And I know he wants this - he only ever wanted the best for us.
Take inventory. Name what energizes you, what sustains you, and what quietly drains you. Be honest about what belongs to an earlier version of yourself. Growth requires space. Make it.
7. If it’s dispensable and doesn’t make you feel amazing, it doesn’t belong in your life.
When we reaffirm our values, remember who we are, and clear house, one truth becomes unmistakable: discernment is not optional - it’s essential. There is no room in my life, or our life, for anything that is merely tolerable. If something (or someone) doesn’t elevate us, it doesn’t belong in the picture.
This isn’t about perfection or constant happiness. It’s about alignment - choosing environments, relationships, and commitments that expand us rather than diminish us.
My children deserve nothing less, and that includes what they receive in their mother. I made a quiet but unwavering commitment: not just to replace what they lost with Brian’s passing, but to exceed it, fold upon fold, in presence, stability, love, and example. That means putting my hard-earned education fully to work. It means savoring the precious moments of our beautiful days, both ordinary and extraordinary. It means caring for my body, mind, and soul as the God-given assets they are.
Alignment is not a luxury. It is the baseline.
Ask yourself where you are settling. Where you are tolerating instead of choosing. Where you already know the answer but haven’t acted on it yet. If it doesn’t make you feel aligned, alive, and grounded, consider whether it still deserves a place in your life.
8. You dictate what your life is, and the world adjusts accordingly.
Live your values boldly, and everything around you will shift to reflect them.
This is the part people misunderstand about manifestation. It isn’t wishing or waiting. It’s choosing. It’s closing doors with intention and setting standards so clear that anything misaligned removes itself without negotiation.
Every hard choice creates space. Every boundary draws a line the world responds to. When you stop tolerating what drains you, you make room for what elevates you.
I’ve learned that life doesn’t meet you where you say you want to be; it meets you where you consistently live. When your values are non-negotiable, opportunities reorganize themselves. People show up differently. Work finds you. Peace follows.
Calling in your best life requires courage. It demands discernment. It asks you to trust that what’s meant for you will meet you at the level of your standards, not below them.
Decide what is non-negotiable. Name the values you will no longer compromise. Then live them - visibly, consistently, without apology. Watch what falls away. Notice what rises to meet you.
I no longer chase alignment. I embody it. And the world has no choice but to adjust.
This is not a manifesto born of loss. It is a declaration born of clarity. What the past year revealed was not fragility, but truth - about who I am, what I value, and how I choose to live. I am no longer waiting for permission, certainty, or consensus. I am living from what I know. If any part of this resonated, trust that it’s not accidental. Your life is asking something of you, too. You don’t need to rush. You don’t need to explain. You only need to listen and then choose. When you do, fully and without apology, the world will meet you there.
