Year Two: The Ache That Lingers

Frenchie

Everyone told me it would get easier with time. But here I am — deep into the second year — and it hurts even more than ever.

The world expects healing to follow a schedule, as if grief has a deadline. But the truth is, I still cry every night. I stare at the pillow with your face — that big, beautiful smile — and I miss it just as much now as I did the day you left. My heart still feels shattered. I still reach for you in the quiet moments, and each time I wake and realize you’re truly gone, the pain comes flooding back all over again.

I’m learning that grief isn’t linear. It isn’t something to check off a to-do list. It’s not something you “get over.” It has reshaped me—woven into the fabric of my everyday life. I’m learning to carry it, but some days I still fail.

Grief is complicated because it’s invisible. From the outside, I look delicate — maybe even strong. But no one sees the weight I carry: the lump in my throat, the restless knots in my stomach, the exhaustion that comes from pretending I’m okay. Grief is quiet and heavy, a burden most people never see.

You were my anchor. My peace. The one who helped me breathe when the world felt too heavy. Without you, I feel like half of me is missing.

Still, I move forward. I carry your absence with me like a shadow — sometimes light, sometimes suffocating. Some days, the grief feels like a soft whisper. On other days, it rages like a storm, leaving me breathless. But always, underneath it all, it’s love. Pure and enduring love.

I am learning to coexist with the sorrow. I don’t feel whole — not yet — but I am still here. I’ve changed. I’ve grown in ways I never expected since you left.

Haleigh still will not talk or text me. My heart aches for her, but I’m learning that I have to keep moving forward without her. I miss her so much, and I know this would have hurt you, too. I may never see her or our grandchildren again. So much has changed, and I no longer have the energy to keep trying to force what isn’t flowing. I’m not getting younger, and I want to build healthy, joyful relationships with the children who do reach out, who show up, who love me back.

Kayla tells me I wasn’t supposed to reach out to Haleigh — that there’s no contact rule— but I never got that memo. I send texts at random moments: I love you, I miss you. I don’t know how else to hold her in my heart.

Despite all of the brokenness, I can feel Heavenly Father near. I feel you cheering me on in the quiet moments. And while I may not be alone, I am — undeniably — deeply, quietly lonely.

I’ve decided to serve in the Mesa Temple. I’m on the waiting list for a calling — just one day a week, but as much as I can. And I’ve decided I want to serve a mission someday. In two years, when I retire, I hope I’ll be healthy enough to go. You know this was always my dream. I wanted to serve when I was twenty-one, but life had other plans — beautiful, messy, unexpected plans. Then you promised me we would serve a mission together. You promised me.

I don’t know what our mission will be, Eric. But I see it two ways:

1. I get to serve in this life — healthy, devoted, and doing good — carrying you with me in every prayer.

or
2. I finish this life and serve with you on the other side.

In either case… I win.

I love you so much. I want to do everything right while you’re gone so that when I cross that veil, I can run straight into your arms.

XOXO
Monya