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I became a widow this summer and as the holidays approach, life feels both tender and strangely bright. Each day brings a mix of ache and gratitude, yet there is a growing clarity about how to live this next chapter with intention and love.
On July 21, the world as I knew it ended, even though the sun still rose and the traffic still moved and emails still landed in my inbox. My husband’s death split my life into a very real “before” and “after,” leaving me to navigate legal papers, funeral plans and financial decisions while my heart was still trying to understand that he was gone. In those first weeks, shock did most of the holding; I moved through tasks on autopilot, doing what needed to be done because there was no other choice.
Now, as the holidays approach, every tradition carries both warmth and a sharp edge. There are empty spaces at the table, missing jokes, no one beside me to debrief the day. Yet in the midst of that absence, I find myself choosing — over and over — to focus on what I have rather than only what I have lost: memories that make me smile, friendships that hold me up and the quiet privilege of waking up to another day.
One of the greatest lessons my husband left me is to live life to the fullest and to pay attention to what is still possible. So, this season, “living fully” does not mean doing more; it means being present. It looks like saying yes to a dinner with friends, taking the walk, planning trips and art retreats, and letting joy sit beside sorrow at the same table. It means allowing grief to ebb and flow, while still daring to make plans and imagine a future that, for now, I will walk alone — but not empty.
When I look back through our photos, I don’t just see what ended; I see how much we were given. The laughter, the trips, the ordinary days on the couch — all of it adds up to a life richly lived, and that abundance is something death cannot erase. Focusing on what I have means noticing small gifts: a text from a friend, a good cup of coffee, a painting that finally comes together, the strength to do one more hard thing.
Perhaps the hardest and most beautiful part of this season is learning to live with the love my husband left behind. His love is no longer in the daily rituals — no more shared grocery lists or a casual “be safe” as I walk out the door — but it is threaded through who I am now. I carry it in my decisions, in the way I show up for others, in my determination to keep going and even to thrive, not in spite of his being gone, but because he loved me so well while he was here. I am a widow, yes — but I am also a woman still deeply companioned by a love that did not end on July 21; it simply changed its form and moved inside my heart, where it will walk with me through every holiday, every ordinary day and every new beginning yet to come.
