A Reminder I Didn't Know I Needed
This year has been…something. Actually, it’s been a lot of things.
Incredible highs with the release of my debut memoir, The Luck We Carry, about loving and losing my incredible husband, Ken, with the realization I haven’t lost him…not all of him. Not the really important parts.
And then the mass layoff. I can’t really call it a low, because I was deeply unhappy in the role. The hard part came after, when I realized I didn’t want another corporate job, another layoff, another year of work that felt so unimportant.
The hardest part was health insurance. Nobody warns you that grief prepares you for mortality but not for the marketplace website. There’s a specific flavor of dread that comes from being in your fifties, uninsured, and doing math about a hypothetical health crisis at eleven o’clock at night.
I got it sorted. My broker was terrific—if you’re navigating post-job coverage and want his name, send me a message and I’ll pass it along.
With insurance handled, I must admit, I’ve slept a little easier. But it was on my morning walk with Hudson today that my mind drifted off to how I handled even more challenging times.
When Ken came home for hospice in March of 2011, my priorities shifted overnight. When he died that June, my whole worldview did. And somewhere in those nine weeks, I learned something I’d apparently filed away and forgotten: fighting it makes you sink faster.
I’d picked that up from ‘70s television, of all places. Quicksand showed up so often in those shows that I grew up assuming adulthood would be lousy with it. The trick was always the same—don’t thrash. Grief works that way too. So does a layoff, it turns out. So does a marketplace portal at eleven o’clock at night.
That was the reminder I didn’t know I needed. Not be strong. Not stay positive. Just: stop thrashing. Move deliberately. Let the people who love you throw you a rope, and take it.
Because life isn’t about the good times. Those are gravy—wonderful, and never guaranteed. The challenges are the actual substance, and it’s not just that we meet them. It’s how. Desperation brings out the worst in people, or the best, and you don’t find out which until you’re in it.
Walking through the park this morning, I realized that’s how I’ve been living all year. Patiently. With help.
So I’m building a writing life and a grief coaching practice instead of updating my résumé, and I’m proud of that in a way the last decade never gave me. It’s terrifying. Ken used to frame every leap the same way—not what if, but why not?—and I’ve decided that’s still a fair question to ask.
Now I wake up curious about what I’ll make that day, and how many kisses I’ll get from Hudson in the yard, in the house, on the walk where I figure things out.
Speaking of which, he’s staring at me. We’re going. I’ve got events and new projects coming up, so subscribe to my newsletter to be the first to know because not all of it will trickle down into this Substack.
Ron Stempkowski is a writer and grief coach and the author of The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories That Shape Us, a memoir-in-essays about learning to move with grief instead of moving on. If this story resonated, you can grab a signed copy—complete with a handwritten note—at ronstempkowski.com, or get your copy wherever books are sold. If you're carrying something heavy and want someone alongside you, book a free consultation—and the first conversation costs nothing. And if you'd like more stories like this one, subscribe to my newsletter and get them straight in your inbox.