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When I last wrote on Elephant Journal, my words were heavily wrapped in grief.
My writings were my lifeline as I tried to make sense of loss, survival, and what it means to keep living after your world shatters.
Time has passed, and while grief never leaves us, it has shifted shape. I’ve learned to carry it differently. Today, I return to this space not only as a widow and a mother, but also as a writer ready to craft my memoir—the larger story that holds the devastation of loss and the surprising places where hope insists on showing up.
I’m honored to share the beginnings of that journey with you here.
~
Right after Steve died, I had a dream of my own that felt more like a full-blown encounter.
I was staying at my mom’s. I heard a knock on the front door. And even in the dream, everything in me screamed, “Don’t open it!”
But I did. Slowly. Cautiously.
The second it cracked open, I was swallowed whole by a presence. No face. No form. Just a thick black energy that wrapped around me like smoke laced with hate.
I screamed myself awake.
That wasn’t just grief. That was something else. Maybe Steve’s shadow—the residue of everything he never dealt with.
It didn’t feel finished.
It felt like it wanted me too.
Months later, a different dream came.
Steve showed up again. But softer this time. Wispy. Quiet.
No rage. But also, no warmth.
He neither scared nor comforted me. He was just…there.
He led me through this strange, boxy house—like a ghost waiting room—and out the back door. Before he left, he opened every window and every door.
I stood there watching him go, feeling both abandoned and, strangely, free.
My therapist called it a gift.
“He left it all open so you could move freely now,” she said.
Even now, I still feel the ache of that dream. The hope inside the grief that maybe he was giving me permission to be free. The complexity of healing.
There were other things too. Smaller things. Weirder things.
Things I don’t usually talk about out loud because…well, who wants to be that widow?
Lights flickering randomly. Blink-blink-blink-blink like haunted Morse Code.
One night, I snapped. “Stop!”
And they did. Just like that.
Or my daughter Jenna’s Snapchat filter—the one that puts sunglasses on faces. She was taking selfies when a second pair of sunglasses kept appearing beside her or behind her face—floating in mid-air.
No body. Just shades. Over and over.
We didn’t say anything. I pretended to be unfazed because that’s what moms do. But inside? I was freaked out. Like, what the hell kind of code-from-the-other-side sh*t is this?!
She didn’t flinch. Kept snapping.
I smiled like this was normal. Because it was—our new normal.
Years later, when Jaden continued playing baseball, butterflies would randomly flutter by the field. We joked—it was Steve. Watching. Cheering.
Maybe it was superstition. Maybe it was comfort. Maybe both.
Sometimes it felt sweet. Other times, when Jaden was struggling at the plate or on the mound, I’d mentally yell, “Go help your son! That’s literally your one job right now.”
But the moment that really hit me sideways?
2018. In Tender Greens. I took myself on a solo lunch date: salt and pepper chicken, arugula salad, mashed potatoes. Normal day.
And then—boom!
Armani cologne. His scent, out of nowhere. No men nearby. Just a cloud of him wrapped around me like a ghost hug I didn’t ask for.
I froze. Put my tray down.
Hands trembling, I texted my friend who had recently lost a loved one and understood. (If you don’t have friends who make the woo-woo feel normal, go find some. They’re priceless.)
“I smell Steve. It’s his cologne. I’m at Tender Greens and there’s literally no one around me. I’m freaking out.”
She texted back: “Breathe. Maybe he’s there. Ask if he has something to say.”
So I did. I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath and silently asked, “What do you want?”
Clear as day:
“I love you.”
I froze again. But this time, with rage.
I texted her: “Nope. F*ck that. He doesn’t get to say that. Not now. Not like this.”
And then I sat and cried. In a Tender Greens. Alone.
While strangers chewed their salads and I sat in a scent I once loved and now hated.
Grief doesn’t just arrive with casseroles and sympathy cards. Sometimes it shows up like this:
Wearing cologne.
Floating in sunglasses.
Crashing into your lunch tray like a poltergeist with unresolved feelings.
But here’s the unexpected flip side:
Healing showed up too. Uninvited and unconventional.
Tucked inside the rage, the woo-woo, and the flickering lights. Reminding me through the whisper, “You’re not crazy. You’re just in it.”
And somehow…I’m still here.
Still finding peace in the absurdity.
Still laughing in the ache.
~
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