The email pops up on my screen in bold text: “T got married over the weekend. So…how are you holding up?”
How am I holding up? My first instinct is to reply, “Great! I’m thrilled for him. Wishing him all the happiness in the world!” But then, out of nowhere, I feel a wave of sadness crash over me, and I can hardly catch my breath.
My former son-in-law has found love again, but all I can think about is the bittersweet memory of years ago when he stood joyfully next to my daughter, Emily, and said, “I take you, Emily Carter, in sickness and in health.” And he did. For two and a half years, he stood by her as she battled cancer, never once abandoning her, even as she withered away before his eyes. He was the embodiment of love, right up to her last breath.
So, how do I feel now? Happy for him, yes, but also a deep sense of sadness and fatigue. It feels like I’m losing yet another person who shared the love and memories of Emily with me, leaving me feeling very much alone.
Over the last 16 years since her passing, I’ve watched other family members and friends move on, starting fresh chapters in their lives. Like the others from “Emily’s Crew,” T now gets to experience life without the heavy shadow of grief. He can laugh freely, love openly, and embrace joy once more.
In the past four years, I’ve had glimpses of brightness, times when I can breathe deeply and feel alive. But those moments are fleeting. When I see others “moving on,” I cling to my connection with Emily, struggling to let go. Yet, I know I must carry on too, or risk fading away myself. These cherished friends and family are honoring Emily by truly living, something she would have wanted if the roles were reversed. If I allow myself to stagnate, then cancer will have claimed yet another life, something Emily would definitely not have wanted.
But let’s be honest. I’m envious. I feel lost and wishful. I wish I hadn’t faced such a devastating loss. I wish I could laugh out loud without the ever-present shadow looming in the background.
Digging deeper, I feel abandoned. Do others not miss Emily as much as I do? Does anyone else carry this immense weight of loss daily? This deep sadness sneaks up on me unexpectedly, catching my breath and disrupting moments of joy. I retreat into myself, back into a dim place where colors fade to gray. It’s a safer spot, where I can cry alone rather than pretending to engage with others. But, as comforting as this “safe” space may seem, it’s slowly draining my spirit. I want to choose life.
Yet, when I do choose life, anxiety often creeps in. I worry about facing another unbearable loss, questioning my ability to survive it. I’ve become overly protective, almost demanding my grandkids wear helmets while using the bathroom at night, just in case. My husband teases me about my irrational fears, like a rock sliding down the mountain to crush our home. I hear about earthquakes and find myself counting the seconds until I expect to wake up in our apartment with walls crumbling around me. “What are the odds?” my husband asks. Very small. I know that, but the odds of losing a child seemed small too, and yet it happened.
It’s tiny steps and slow progress. There’s no clock on grief, healing, or the process of loving and letting go. My love for Emily is mine alone, and that’s why I often feel isolated. It was unique for T as well. Both of us will carry Emily’s memories in our hearts forever. Just because he’s getting married doesn’t mean she’s erased from our lives.
Is that what “moving on” means to me? Do I react so strongly to that phrase because it sounds like forgetting, like tossing out precious memories? It reminds me of pioneers who had to leave behind cherished keepsakes to lighten their load. I don’t want to abandon Emily on some dusty path, lost forever just so I can reach an uncertain destination. Or perhaps I fear that if I don’t obsess over her daily, I’ll lose her entirely. And what if she’s ready to let go of me? Where would she go? Who would care for her? If T isn’t there for her anymore, shouldn’t I be? What happens if she moves on? Where does that leave me?
The beauty of our memories is that no one is ever lost or abandoned. Those memories are weightless yet carry immense comfort. They travel with us no matter where we go. Even the pioneers took their memories along. Anyone who loved Emily will never forget her. In my thoughts, I will continue to care for her, and she will do the same for me. So, rather than think of “moving on” as leaving behind, I can reframe it as “carrying on, with you.”
So, how do I feel about T’s marriage? Grateful. Grateful that he gets to carry on, that he has a second chance to feel alive and experience joy.
This wedding announcement has stirred up feelings of loss, but perhaps in processing these feelings, I can allow myself to join T and others in “moving on”—or rather, “carrying on.” This doesn’t mean I’m letting go of Emily. It means she’ll walk with me as I move forward, encouraging me to breathe, laugh, and love. She would want that for me.
So, how am I doing? Publicly, I say, “I’m fine!” Internally, I remind myself: “One step at a time. Carrying on. Thanks for asking.”