The Quiet Ways Grief Changed Me—for the Better
Grief and loss don’t define me. They inform me.
For a long time, I thought grief had rewritten my entire identity. After Ken died, everything felt marked by before and after. I didn’t recognize the guy in the mirror. I didn’t recognize the world he lived in either. It felt like grief had stamped my passport and decided where I was allowed to go next.
But with time, I realized something important. Grief didn’t take over my story. It reshaped it. It sharpened what mattered. It softened what didn’t. It taught me to pay attention in a way I never had before.
Losing Ken didn’t erase who I was. It revealed more of who I am.
I carry the love we had, the years we shared, the way he lit up a room like it was his actual job. I carry the quiet lessons loss forced on me, the kind you don’t ask for and still somehow end up grateful for. I carry the moments that broke me open and the ones that helped stitch me back together.
But I am not defined by the loss itself. I’m defined by how I choose to live with it.
I write. I tell the truth even when it’s uncomfortable. I try to make meaning out of what I’ve lived through. I try to meet the world with a little more kindness because I know how fragile everything is. I try to say yes to what feels good and true, even when fear gets loud.
Grief is part of my story. It will always be. But it is not the headline. It’s the context. It’s the guide rail. It’s the reminder that love is still worth showing up for, even when you’ve learned how badly it can hurt.
And in its own strange way, it’s what keeps nudging me to live the rest of my story fully awake.
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