I’ve always been someone who liked having a plan. Not a rigid, every-minute-mapped-out kind of plan—but a general sense of what was ahead, where we were headed, and what we were building toward. Especially in recent years, Eric and I had started dreaming about what life could look like once the busy years slowed down a bit.

We’d grown to truly live for traveling together—mostly just the two of us, often with family. Instead of toys and clothes, we started giving our grandkids short trips as birthday and Christmas gifts. “Experiences over things” became our motto. And it lit something up in both of us. We imagined much more of that in our future. Weekend road trips. National parks. Maybe even getting an RV and hitting the road for real once he retired.

We played with that idea more than once—getting the RV sooner, taking off together to explore. But I never had the heart to push it. He worked out of town most weeks, living in hotels, eating every meal out. The thought of having the RV packed and ready to roll the second he got home felt unfair. How could I ask him to leave again right after walking through the front door?

Still, we tucked those plans in our back pocket. We thought we had time. He would have retired this past Spring. 

We also thought we’d finally tackle that old back section of our house—the porch/mudroom/laundry room/pantry situation we’d been talking about remodeling since we moved in almost 30 years ago. Over the years, that dream shifted from something for a family of five to something more suited for empty nesters. And now? Now I’m not sure what it needs to become. That space, and what it represented, has changed again. It's a tangible reminder that life is evolving, whether I feel ready or not.

Because here’s the thing: it’s not just Eric that’s gone.

It’s the road map. The landmarks. The milestones we talked about but never reached.

We had an unspoken itinerary—where we’d go, what we’d do, how the seasons of our life would unfold. And now I’m standing here with the map still in my hand, but the destination no longer exists.

I always thought grief would be about missing the person—and it is, in deep and aching ways. But I wasn’t prepared for the grief that sneaks in when I think about what we didn’t get to do. The anniversary trip that never happened. The porch-sitting years we used to imagine. The grandkid adventures he won’t take. The towns he’ll never walk through. The jokes he’ll never make.

That part of the grief doesn’t always get named. But it’s real. And it deserves space.

It took me a while to realize that I am not just mourning the past—I am mourning the life we won’t get to live together. 

I’m not someone who needs every hour planned, but I do like having a general sense of direction. Something to look forward to. Somewhere to point my compass. Eric and I were a team, and so much of our planning happened in tandem—our shared energy shaped what came next. Without him, the horizon looks… foggy. Uncertain. I feel a little adrift.

I have always been a planner. I like having something to look forward to. Now, I’m trying to be okay with just being here—even when I don’t know what comes next. It's not easy. It feels like another lost piece of myself

At first, the idea of traveling alone—or doing anything we’d dreamed of doing together—felt wrong. Like I was leaving him behind. Like it would feel too empty. But I’m starting to see it differently.

Some of those dreams? I still want them. I still need them. And doing them without him doesn’t mean I’ve erased him. If anything, it means I’m carrying him with me into a new version of those moments.

Maybe I’ll finally visit Tombstone, Arizona—the kind of old-west relic we would’ve both loved. Maybe I’ll tackle that back room project, reshaping it with new needs in mind. I’ll for certain keep giving the grandkids experiences over stuff... and feel him riding shotgun every time we take a trip.

It doesn’t feel like “moving on.”

It feels like carrying him with me in different ways.

I’m realizing that life doesn’t have to be either/or. I don’t have to dive into a whole new plan, but I also don’t have to stay stuck in what was.

There’s space for both grief and hope.

There’s space for rest and curiosity.

There’s space for remembering and for dreaming new dreams.

Some days I feel ready to dream again. Other days I just want to rest. I’m learning to let that be enough.

Right now, I’m doing what I can to stay grounded—writing, listening to music, spending time with family. I’ve been listening to The Year of Magical Thinking and finding so many truths in Joan Didion’s words. She names the quiet, illogical parts of grief with a clarity that feels both comforting and raw. I'm going through it slowly, absorbing her words differently than I ever would have before. There's comfort in connecting with someone else who has walked a similar path. 

What’s harder is learning how to sit with uncertainty. I don’t have a five-year plan. I don’t even have a five-month plan.

I don’t have to erase the plans we made.

They’re still a part of me.

They always will be.

But my story didn’t end with the chapter I lost.

I’m still here. Still open to what might come next.

And I’m not rebuilding the life we had—I’m slowly shaping something new.

While I don’t know exactly what it will look like… I know it will be mine.