Standing at my kitchen window, I noticed tiny buds forming on the apple trees. The grass is finally greening up, birds are making their way back from their winter homes, and the sun is shining again with that unmistakable promise of Spring.
This is our favorite time of year.
Was.
Spring Without Him
It was Eric’s favorite, too—well, aside from the seasonal allergies. Warmer days, more sunlight, mowing acres of lawn (which he loved more than any human should)—we both looked forward to this shift every year. After a cold and dark Winter, it always felt like life itself was beginning again.
And now, here I am, noticing the signs of Spring without him.
Have I really made it through a season without him? Losing him in the Fall, cocooning through the Winter, and now, slowly re-emerging with Spring—it all feels oddly symbolic. Grief has its own seasons, I guess.
Time alone doesn’t heal. But it does give space for healing, if I’m willing to do the work.
Time Moves, Whether I'm Ready or Not
Time Has a Funny Way of Moving
Nearly six months.
It’s been almost half a year since Eric died. Some days, it feels like it just happened. Other days, it feels like a completely different lifetime. I’ve learned that time keeps moving whether I’m ready for it or not—whether I’m curled up in a blanket crying or out in the world pretending I’ve got it together.
I remember praying for time to rewind. Then praying for it to fast-forward—hoping there’d be some magical day when I’d wake up healed and "normal" again. But that’s not how this works. Time alone doesn’t heal. But it does give space for healing, if I’m willing to do the work.
The Cocoon Phase
In those early months, I disappeared into myself. I needed quiet. I needed stillness. I needed not to be “on” for anyone.
Inside that cocoon, I learned that I didn’t have to do more, be more, or share anything I wasn’t ready to. I didn’t owe anyone a tidy, inspirational version of grief. This season was mine.
At first, I felt a little offended that the world just... kept going. Didn’t it know everything had changed? But eventually, I found some strange comfort in that. If the world kept going, maybe I would, too. Maybe my life wasn’t over—just different than I imagined.
Letting go of that imagined future was hard. But maybe part of living a good life is realizing we never had as much control over our stories as we thought. And if that’s true—if anything can change at any moment—then what we can control is how we respond to and grow from it. That realization gives me hope.
Finding Growth in the Quiet
Growth I Didn’t Expect
I’ve always been more of a private person, especially when it comes to deeply personal stories. But I’ve found that writing about my grief—sharing pieces of it here—has helped me connect with others in such a meaningful way.
Writing has always been a safe place for me to land, but now it’s also become a bridge. I’ve been surprised (and honestly, proud) that something I kept to myself for so long is now helping me grow, reflect, and reach others—without crossing my own boundaries.
There’s still a balance. Some parts of my story are just for me. But I’ve learned that vulnerability doesn’t mean giving everything away. It means opening just enough to let the light in.
Grief Still Visits (But Softer Now)
These days, grief doesn’t hit like a wrecking ball. Not as often, anyway.
At first, it was sharp. Unrelenting. Random. Now, it shows up more like a dull ache that fades in and out. Sometimes it’s a memory. A smell. A song. A conversation that reminds me of what’s missing.
But something’s changed. I have more moments now where the good memories feel like armor. Like maybe the love and good times we shared are strong enough to protect me from the worst of the pain.
It still hurts, don’t get me wrong. But the edges aren’t as jagged as they were before. And often, I can smile or laugh when I think of him. That feels like progress and very authentic to the kind of person he was.
Reemerging, Gently
Little by little, I’ve been stepping back into life.
It’s not some big, dramatic reawakening. It’s more like sticking my head out of the cocoon, checking the temperature, and seeing what feels safe.
New routines are forming. Creativity is creeping back in. I’m reconnecting with friends and family—who, by the way, have been nothing short of incredible. They’ve supported me with so much grace, never pushing too hard, always encouraging gently.
And I’m starting to imagine a life where I can still be happy. A life where Eric isn’t physically present, but his love, his influence, his memory still shapes everything.
It won’t be the life I envisioned. But that doesn’t mean it can’t still be good.
Keep choosing to heal, even on the hard days.
What I'd Tell Myself Six Months Ago
If I could talk to the AJ of six months ago, I’d say:
“You’re going to make it. Not because time magically heals things, but because you’re stronger than you think. And you’ll keep choosing to heal, even on the hard days.”
Healing takes effort. It takes self-reflection. It takes sitting with your pain instead of rushing past it. It takes journaling the ugly stuff, the real stuff. It takes letting the good moments come without guilt. And it takes patience—so much patience.
To anyone in their own cocoon right now:
Please don’t rush it. Let it be what it needs to be. Let you be who you need to be.
Because eventually, if you’re gentle with yourself, you’ll start to come out again. Not as the person you were before—but maybe someone even stronger, even wiser, even more alive.
A Life Worth Living
One of my biggest fears?
Reaching 80, stuck in an aging body, haunted by the chances I never took, the places I never saw, the experiences I talked myself out of. That's not what I looked forward and saw when I had Eric by my side, and it's not what I want for myself now. (That photo is from when we went ziplining near Crater Lake!)
Life is just too short to let fear and self-doubt run the show. I’ve lost enough already. I’m not going to lose the rest of it to hesitation.
So here’s to walking the road less traveled.
Here’s to taking the leap—even when your heart still aches.
Here’s to living while we can.
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