Steps Forward: Navigating Grief by Living the Love

“Each time I choose love over despair, connection over isolation, presence over numbness, I take one small step forward. And every step honors the life we shared.”

It’s been three weeks since we lost Brian.

I’m only at the very beginning of the grieving process. I've been reflecting a lot - on how to be, what to do, what not to do. “That morning,” once I could speak, my first phone call was to my best childhood friend, who tragically lost her husband 3.5 years ago - their son was just six. I asked her, “What do I do right now?” I still wanted to claw myself out of my skin. Wake me up. Tell me this is just a nightmare. Her first words were, “First of all, while it doesn’t seem like it now, you and the kids will be okay.” I think the next thing she told me was to remember to breathe.

There are books, theories, coaches, and therapists. But there’s no “official” workbook for grief. We humans may share similar paths, but as I’ve always said, “Humans are the ultimate variables.” What works for you may not serve me.

These past three weeks, I’ve felt like I’m operating outside my own body. It’s almost a superhuman experience. I think, cry, act, and move according to something beyond me. I’m constantly trying to balance my mind and body. Sometimes I know I should go for a walk and get fresh air, but I’m physically depleted. Other times, I want to cry, but hold back because, honestly, crying is also exhausting.

Every moment presents choices.

What I’ve found is that my guiding light - my North Star - is what Brian would want from me.

How do I channel the woman he fell in love with?

That question sits at the heart of everything I do right now. Somehow, the desire to live in a way that honors him, to be the woman he adored and who adored him right back, is the force moving me forward. Through every decision, every action, and - yes - most of my words (LOL), I try to lead with her.

This isn’t a how-to guide. But here are a few ways I’ve found to carry him with me as I navigate this new world without him.

Be real.

No one knows what they’re doing as a parent, but one thing Brian and I committed to was authenticity. If one of us hurt the other's feelings, we modeled apologies for our kids. If one of us had a tough day, we talked about it.

Navigating grief with young kids is tricky. I don’t want to hide my emotions, but I also have to balance that honesty with strength - the kind that assures them we will be okay. I’m learning to ride the emotional rollercoaster in a way that keeps my heart open, for my kids, our community, and myself.

Show up.

The day before the kids returned to school after spring break (and after losing their dad), I received generous offers to walk them to school. I was surprised myself that I could even get out of bed. But something in me wanted to do it. I wanted to show up with them, together - our new unit of three (four if you count our wild Doodle). I knew Brian would want that. I knew I needed that. I know he wants me to volunteer in Benji’s art class today, even though I am exhausted. Simply showing up has been a powerful medicine for me in these early days.

Tend to myself - and our hearth.

Brian appreciated that I always took care of myself. While it may sound superficial, my outward appearance has always mirrored my inner state. Yes, it takes more energy these days to shower and blow-dry my hair. Yes, I’m living in athleisure. But I know Brian wouldn’t want me to fall apart. So I’m trying - and soon, maybe I’ll wear more jeans.

I also make the bed every morning. I keep our home tidy. These routines don’t feel like chores anymore - they feel sacred. They’re acts of love. Acts that honor the life we built and the values we shared.

Lean into community.

Grief makes you want to retreat. But in the earliest days, our home was filled with people who loved him - and us. Over time, the waves of visitors have slowed. And yet, the meals, flowers, cards, and kind gestures keep coming.

Accepting help is hard. But I’ve learned that people want to show up. Our school community has wrapped us in a kind of care I didn’t know existed. I’ve lived in places where neighbors didn’t even say hello. Now, our village nourishes us - and I know Brian sees it. He never meant for us to be alone.

Humbly ask for - and accept - help.

Mothers are terrible at this. We pride ourselves on doing it all. But ego has no place here. When I weigh my pride against what’s best for my children, the winner is obvious. My ego can ride in the backseat while I do what’s needed for our family. That means letting people in, taking the meals, accepting the financial help, saying “yes” when I need rest. Brian would want me to preserve our family’s well-being. He’d want me to receive love as freely as I gave it.

Laugh.

It feels wrong, at times, to laugh. To smile. To enjoy. How dare I? And yet… how could I not?

Our life together was full of joy. So many ridiculous, beautiful, unforgettable moments. Even now, in the quiet moments of crushing sadness, I remember his jokes, his voice, the way he made us laugh. And I laugh again. Not because I’ve moved on, but because I carry him with me.

In his will (which I had always refused to read), he wrote:

“I wish for my family and friends to look at my dying as a time of personal growth for everyone, including me. This will help me live a meaningful life in my final days.”

So here I am - growing, stretching, stumbling forward. One breath at a time.

Grief is a mess. A maze. A mirror. But each time I choose love over despair, connection over isolation, presence over numbness, I take one small step forward. And every step honors the life we shared.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But today, I made the bed. I kissed our kids on their foreheads. I cried, and I laughed. And through it all, I felt him close by.

That’s how I’m honoring him - one small, fiercely loving act at a time.