My Story

*This article was originally written and published for Love What Matters. Read it here. *

“365 days down, forever to go.” These words came from a letter my husband, Ian, wrote to me for our first wedding anniversary. It was June of 2019 when I found it stuffed away in my underwear drawer and re-read it. Ian had passed away just 3 months prior. ‘Forever to go.’ The tears flowed as I realized how I had not only lost my husband, my soulmate, and the father of my two children, but I also lost our beautiful future together.

I lost our forever — our dreams of growing old together, of watching our children reach milestones and seeing them grow up. I lost my identity as Ian’s wife, his partner-in-crime, and in life. I lost my direction and purpose in life — our shared dreams and goals. I lost control over my precious world. I lost confidence in my ability to survive. I lost myself.



Yet, what I’ve discovered in the process of losing everything, is there is so much more in life to be found. My husband’s death has taught me how to search, how to ask the right questions to find meaning in his loss, lessons in life’s hardships, and love in the pain. When I reflect on our journey together — searching for answers and connections to make sense of it all — I can now see everything happened for a reason. So let’s start at the beginning!

I remember passing Ian in the hallway of my freshman dorms and immediately getting butterflies in my stomach. I was magnetized by his surfer body and bronzed skin from playing in the Hawaiian ocean, and enamored by his kindness, his sense of humor, and his carefree, go-with-the-flow attitude. His smile melted my heart and his ability to make me feel like the most intriguing person in the room had me hooked.

If one word could sum up our relationship it was FUN! We loved going on adventures together and feeding off each other’s positive energy and exuberance for life. We made the most out of every moment together and didn’t plan ahead into the future. Marriage? Kids? We didn’t think about it. We lived in the now, a mentality that would serve us during the challenging times to come.



It was 2011, and Ian and I were on a ‘break’ to pursue our careers and personal ambitions apart from each other. I was in graduate school in Pittsburgh and Ian had a hotel job in Beijing, China. Despite the break, we still would check-in from time to time. I was busy working at my internship when I received a call from Ian. I could hear his tears. His fear. His desperation. He had woken up one morning and couldn’t see, so he went to the doctor and they found a tumor in his eye. Cancer!

My heart sank. Ian and I were both 24 and just starting out our lives, but he had been served this massive injustice. He had Uveal Melanoma, a rare cancer that affects approximately 2,000 people a year, most of whom are elderly and near the end of their lives. The odds were okay if the cancer didn’t spread beyond his eye. But if it did… it was fatal. Ian was young. He was strong. We were primed for the fight.

Ian’s original cancer diagnosis was a turning point in our relationship and in our life. We both grew up. We both realized what was truly important. Ian’s career goals of becoming a general manager, his plans of adventuring through Asia, of catching the best waves in Bali — all of it quickly dissipated as he faced his mortality. That’s what happens with a terminal diagnosis. Dreams disappear when survival is at stake. As Ian looked toward his potentially dire fate, he decided instead to focus on the present and make the most of it. This meant proposing to me, getting married, and starting our life together.

People are often surprised to found out I married Ian knowing he had cancer. In fact, 2 weeks before our wedding his doctor told us Ian needed to get his eye removed. Radiation wasn’t working. The tumor was growing. I guess I had faith. I chose the moment over the future. I chose love over fear. And, looking back, I can’t imagine choosing otherwise. Our wedding and honeymoon were the last times Ian saw me from both eyes. With Ian’s eye and tumor removed, we thought things couldn’t get worst. We were in love and had high hopes for the future. But we were wrong.



We were at the beach in San Diego. Ian was chasing our 2-year-old daughter Izzy around in the waves, kicking up sand and grinning from ear to ear. Making Ian a father was the greatest gift I ever gave him. He was loving and playful, but also protective and even stern. He took his fatherly duties seriously and wanted the world for his kids. My pregnancy with Izzy had actually come as a surprise! We both weren’t really ready to be parents. In fact, we weren’t planning on starting a family until I turned 32 — an age Ian will forever be. If it wasn’t for our ‘surprise,’ he never would have become a father.



I watched Ian and Izzy playing on the beach that day and felt Theo kicking in my stomach. Life was good. All of a sudden, Ian’s smile changed to worry. His physical therapist, who was treating Ian for lower back pain, had called and told him his MRI showed tumors all over his spine! We rushed to the ER, looking for immediate answers. Hours in the ER turned into days in the hospital filled with scans, more waiting, and serious conversations. We finally found out Ian’s Uveal Melanoma had metastasized to his spine, lungs, and abdomen. Stage IV.

I can still feel Ian’s arms wrapped around me that day. Grasping me tightly as we both sobbed away our future dreams. We held each other as if we were holding on to that one moment in time — the only certainty we had left.



The news of Ian’s metastasis was devastating. Most patients with uveal melanoma survive 6-9 months after the cancer metastasizes and there is no cure. Just one FDA approved drug with a grim success rate of 11% and it was for melanoma, not uveal melanoma. The facts told one story, but Ian and I told another. We were still going to beat this.

For 15 months, Ian and I flew back and forth to MD Anderson, a prestigious cancer center in Houston, to enroll in experimental studies in search of a miracle cure. Some drugs made him deathly ill. On one trip, we couldn’t return home because Ian was shaking violently with the chills, then profusely sweating in between bouts of vomiting and diarrhea.

During this time, we survived by living in the moment. Each doctor’s appointment, each scan, and test result determined our fate. Would Ian live? Did the drug buy us more time? And if not, then what do we try next? The future was too scary… too dark and unknown. So we didn’t go there. We made the most of the time we had and relished every second of it, knowing tomorrow was never guaranteed.



This reality set in for me on New Years Day of 2019. Ian woke me up in a panic, exclaiming he couldn’t move or feel his legs. Another ER visit revealed a massive tumor pressing against his spinal column. If they didn’t operate immediately, he would be paralyzed from the waist down. Ian’s emergency spinal surgery went smoothly, but the doctor had little hope Ian would ever walk again. The news crippled me. I knew if the remainder of Ian’s life was to be in a wheelchair, then he wouldn’t have the will to fight. The cancer would win.

This was just speculation, and Ian would be the first one to point that out. Instead of worrying about Ian’s future recovery, I turned my attention to the now. After two weeks of rehab, Ian walked out of the hospital. Shortly after this incident, Ian told me he wanted to return to his hometown in Hawaii. He was worried he was running out of time. In February of 2019, we packed up the family for a 3-week Hawaiian vacation. In the back of my mind, I knew Ian wouldn’t be coming back.

We made it to Hawaii. As Ian crinkled his toes in the sand, waded in the crystal clear, aquamarine water, ate at his favorite restaurants, and spent time with childhood friends, I could tell how much he was savoring his final moments. He wanted to surf and swim — to enjoy the life he used to — but cancer pain kept getting in the way. Ian went to the hospital in Honolulu for pain management.



‘Ian is dying. There is cancer everywhere! Did no one tell you this?!’ His bedside manner wasn’t great, but the local oncologist’s words were exactly what we needed to hear. Ian was dying.

Ian started hospice in a beautiful beach home that had been donated to our family for this difficult time. The home overlooked the Mokolua’s, a set of twin islands Ian had grown up paddling to and surfing around and later became his place of freedom, peace, and light in a body full of pain.



We celebrated our son Theo’s first birthday on Ian’s second day of hospice. Ian seemed to be doing well, upbeat, and enjoying the party. But the day after, he took a turn. He could barely make out a word. The knot in my stomach grew bigger as I watched my husband slowly fade away.

The 25 days that followed were surreal. The reality my husband was dying hadn’t sunk in. I felt like I was just floating by, not really feeling or processing anything, just numb and going through the motions. I would make Ian breakfast, help him eat, bathe him, guide him to the bathroom, give him medicine, and then take turns with his friends who kept him company by his hospital bed.



Izzy would visit daddy, massaging his hand and giving him kisses. Theo had a harder time, as he tended to accidentally pull at Ian’s tubes or move too spastically for Ian’s fragile state. Izzy would ask me what was wrong with daddy, so I told her:

‘Daddy is sick. He has cancer. Cancer isn’t a cold or something we can catch. We didn’t give Daddy cancer either. None of this is your or my fault. We are trying to make Daddy better, but there is a chance Daddy will die.’

She stared back at me with her big brown eyes, still searching for meaning in these answers. As much as she was searching, so was I.



Before Ian died, I wrote him a letter. I wanted to tell him three important things. 1) how much I loved him, 2) how much of an impact he made on my life, and 3) we would be okay. I read it to him one afternoon, and slightly dazed from the morphine he replied, ‘Emily that is so nice of you! Is it my birthday? Did I do something special?’

I laughed and answered, ‘No, Ian. I just want to tell you how much I love you. It’s a love letter!’

‘Oh! Okay,’ he agreed contently. After I said everything I needed to say to Ian, I was ready to let him go. To end his suffering. He deserved a better life than the one he was living.



Ian passed away on March 26, 2019. He left us just as the sun was rising, before the kids and I woke up, and when the night nurse had taken his coffee break. Ian went alone, probably with his surfboard to catch the first waves of the day.

I cried, tears of sadness mixed with relief. Although my worst nightmare had just come true, I felt a strange sense of peace. I asked Izzy if she wanted to say goodbye to her daddy. At first, she hesitated, but then she grabbed my hand and asked to go see him. We entered the room where Ian lay lifeless. Her grip tightened as we approached his hospital bed.

I can still hear her timid, confused and innocent voice as she softly said, ‘Goodbye, Daddy.’ We stood there for a second and then she looked up at me and asked, ‘Can we go?’ I nodded my head and we left. We walked to the beach and when we came back, Ian’s body was gone. They took him to the mortuary to be turned into ashes so he could be spread in the water by the Mokoluas, at the top of Winter Park mountain in Colorado, and in two viles I’m keeping for my children when they are old enough to have them.



When Izzy entered the empty room she looked at me in astonishment. ‘Where did he go?’

‘Up in the sky,’ I answered.

‘Like poof?!’

‘Yes, Izzy. Just like that.’

Every so often, Izzy and I light a candle before bedtime and we stare out into the starry sky. We talk about Daddy and how he’s out there watching over us. How he’s so proud of our family of three and how we are all still connected by the invisible string of love. I’ve learned how to maintain my relationship with Ian, even without him physically here. I ask him questions and seek his guidance, and if I’m still enough to listen, he provides me with the answers.



It’s been almost 2 years since Ian passed away and there are still times I can’t believe this is my life. In the months following his death, I outright refused this reality. I fought it with anger, with anxiety, and with guilt. And, when the overwhelm of my emotions and the reality of my new normal made me feel so hopeless and paralyzed, I turned to fitness to cope. When I moved my body, I could safely feel my feelings— no matter how hard or painful they were — and take back power in a world where I felt ultimately powerless.

6 months after Ian died, I started moveTHRU. moveTHRU connects anyone who has experienced a loss and helps them cope with grief through exercise. It’s an intention-based workout to embrace your emotions instead of suppressing them. It’s a community that supports and empowers one another through grief, and it’s a call-to-action to keep moving forward and loving life, no matter what it throws you! moveTHRU has helped me heal and give meaning to Ian’s death by helping others heal.



Losing Ian has proven to me life is unpredictable. We think we have control, but we don’t. I’ve learned the only way to live is to ultimately surrender to the forces outside us, and bring the focus within. In doing so, we are able to seek the lessons in hardship, recognize the gifts in each moment, and trust everything will work out in ways we never imagined (or even wanted in the first place).

Dating As A Widow (Continued)

This quote sums up what being in a new, stable, and loving relationship is like for me now… as a widow.

I’ve been practicing the act of surrender a lot since my late husband Ian died — letting go of what I thought my life should be; and embracing what it’s becoming.

I’ve done this in many areas of my life, but most recently in my romantic one. I’ve been seeing Taylor Ames since the world ended in March and it has been an emotional journey for me. I wrote about dating as a widow before and thought I had the answers, but this experience has brought forth so many questions — as well as new insights and revelations about myself, my evolving definition of love, and what type of person I desire and need as a partner.

Why?

Because this time my relationship is not coming from a place of loneliness; from a need to fill a void, feel whole or complete; or from past-patterns I picked up from falling in love when I was an 18-year old college freshmen.

Source: @createthelove

This time, my relationship is coming from a place of a choice — a deliberate decision that is supported by my body, my mind and my heart being in total alignment (ie. not just choosing with my heart in decisions of love — but with them ALL).

I’m embracing what this relationship is becoming…

But it’s not as easy as I thought.

A new relationship means opening up my life and sharing all that I hold sacred in it — present, future and PAST — with someone new.

I feel it …

  • When Izzy runs and and jumps into Taylor’s arms when he enters a room.
  • When Theo and him “bro” out over how much food they can eat or playing ball together.
  • When the kids wrestle on the floor with him, just like they did with their biological father Ian who is no longer here physically to touch them, hold them, and do what Taylor has the privilege to do with them here on earth.

And it hurts.

Yet at the same time it feels right. It feels like love. It feels like hope. It feels like a new normal.

I like my new normal a lot. But allowing it to materialize while still holding so much love in my heart for my late husband — the father of my children, my soulmate and best friend — is hard.

It’s a balancing act of letting go and holding on; of creating sacred space to honor both old and new love; and allowing myself the time and space to process the complex emotions and feelings involved.

I’m far from mastering this, but I’m committed to taking it one day at a time and letting go bit by bit as I figure it all out! 🙂


If you’ve read this far you might be thinking that I need more time to heal. Maybe it’s too soon for a serious relationship?

If you feel that way I do think that you are partially right. I do need time to heal. But healing is a journey in itself and I’m not sure when that finish line will come…or if it even exists.

I also love this quote from @Yung_Pueblo that Taylor shared with me.

I have so many thoughts about dating, love and relationships that I want to share with you (and will in due time). Finding love for a second time and figuring out how this all materializes is part of my grief journey — which is why I’m opening my heart up to you.

I hope that this post resonates with anyone who has lost an old love and is open to letting in the new! And if you have any insights, questions or tips for me please leave them in the comments below.

For now, here’s to embracing what our life is becoming…whether we envisioned it this way or not!

xx,

Emily

4 Tips to Find Freedom in Grief on July 4th

Milestones are tricky when it comes to grief and loss. We tend to “prepare” for the big ones like death-anniversaries, major holidays like Christmas, or your deceased person’s birthday, by anticipating that the day might be emotionally challenging. But, what I’ve found after more than 15 months since my husband Ian’s death is that the more subtle ones tend sneak up on us — presenting an equal struggle or even more of one because they catch us off guard!

We are approaching July 4th, which for most people might be categorized as a “smaller holiday” — a subtle milestone. But for me, it’s also my wedding anniversary with Ian. This Saturday, July 4, 2020, would have marked six years as a married couple.

I don’t know how I’ll be feeling on that day, but what I do know is that I’ll give myself space to welcome whatever comes up and feel it. My grief journey has taught me to embrace the pain as a sign of eternal love — the invisible string that keeps us connected. This Saturday, I plan to visit our wedding venue up on Lookout Mountain and explore the surrounding natural scenery with my two kiddos to remember the day;

How dapper Ian looked in his designer suit. (He got very fancy after living at the Raffles Beijing Hotel for 3 years! 😉 )

His delicious smile that made me fall in love with him.

The way his eyes locked on mine walking down the aisle.

The electricity in the air from the rain storm that had just passed and from energy that everyone who attended our wedding experienced collectively that day.

Love bursting from within us like fireworks.

And while there will be no fireworks to light up the night this year due to the pandemic, I’ll never let go of the spark that connected our souls here on earth and our spirits into eternity.


I revisited my blog post from my first wedding anniversary without Ian. At the time I still wore my wedding rings, in addition to his wedding band, which I had turned into a bracelet. I was still holding on to my old identity — loving wife to Ian and mother to his kids. It’s been a painful, yet profound process to shed these identities and I’ve taken my time to move forward in a way that feels organic and true to me.

I’ve learned that while I’m no longer Ian’s wife, that does’t diminish my love for him; and while our family is missing its father-figure, that doesn’t make us any less whole.

I’ve learned that pain is the greatest catalyst for self-discovery and growth — and this theme comes up time and time again. Which leads me to my last lesson —

That there is always a lesson!

Every life experience — as tragic, unfair, and hopeless as it may seem — can teach us something new. And this awakening is pure magic.

Sometimes it’s difficult to see these lessons when you’re in the thick of pain and struggle — so if you are, I offer the advice to give yourself grace, give yourself time, focus on doing the next right thing and most importantly give yourself permission to feel whatever you feel.

And for these sneaky holidays like July 4th, here a few tips I’ve picked up from my personal grief journey:


TIP 1:

If you make social plans, remember that you have every right to bail last minute. Sometimes we don’t know how we are going to feel right up until the moment we are “in it”, so give friends or family members a heads up.


TIP 2:

If you’re not comfortable with cancelling, then just don’t commit! Reserve the right to join the party last minute or late. Remember — you do what’s right for you!


TIP 3:

Remind yourself that this one special day is literally just another day. Consider making space to grieve a couple days before a holiday or milestone if you feel like something might come up. This way you can be in more control of your emotions and enjoy the special day as you envision.


TIP 4:

Holidays bring family and friends together. So when our loved one isn’t around to attend the party, it certainly deepens the void. As you see their warm embraces and hear their laughter, it will intensity your loss. Remember to:

  • Take a deep breathe.
  • Feel the pain.
  • Remind yourself that pain is love.
  • And that love is just as alive as the people surrounding you.

If you have experienced the loss of a loved one, you know that not one day passes without thinking about our deceased person. Milestones or holidays don’t change that. They can trigger our emotions, but we have the power to prepare to lean into our grief, save it for another day, or feel whatever come up in the moment. You have the freedom and power and to choose whatever path is right for you!

So this July 4th — a day to honor our nation’s freedom and independence —, I invite you to celebrate your loved one; celebrate the freedom and power of creating your own unique journey; and celebrate the lessons — the magical transformations that unfold when we fully embrace struggle and feel it all!

Tips for Living with Grief

Last week I hosted an Instagram LIVE chat with Chloé Pestana on the subject of grief. Chloé and I had met at a New Year’s party in Oahu, just nine months after my husband Ian died. As friends drank champagne and partied around us, Chloé and I found ourselves in a deep conversation about loss and grief. Chloé had lost her three-year-old son Legend just about two years before I lost Ian. Although we were strangers at the time, we were instantly connected through our respective losses. This beautiful stranger, who had lived every mother’s worst nightmare just two years before I lived mine, gave me so much hope and inspiration that we can survive, if not thrive after someone we love dies.

Since the party, Chloé and I kept in touch and in light of the global pandemic, she reached out to see if I’d talk openly with her about our stories of loss and grief. We both agreed that as the whole world grieves the loss of normalcy right now, some tips about coping with grief might really help!!

So we jumped on Instagram LIVE and got real! But, half-way into our conversation, we stumbled over the word coping. Chloé and I both agree that as grief evolves from a place of profound pain into love and gratitude, it doesn’t feel like coping. It feels more like remembering and appreciating your deceased person. You don’t cope with grief, you live with it. But, this evolution takes time, the feelings are always bittersweet, and just like life, it’s unpredictable and varied.

So here are my top tips for living with grief:

Give yourself space.

Grief comes with a lot of intense feelings and emotions (feelings are attached to a thought, while emotions can be experienced subconsciously). As a single-mom, I’ve found it highly difficult, if not impossible to process my feelings and emotions with my children around. I literally have to make physical space to find solitude and stillness to move through my grief. For me, unprocessed emotions feel a lot like anxiety. My chest tightens, my heart starts to race, and frantic thoughts and energy takes over my mind and body. THIS is when I know I need to call the babysitter, make space, and lean into my grief.

Get moving!

I’ve always struggled with naming my feelings and emotions — especially in the months shortly after Ian died. I remember feeling numb and “off”, but struggled to attach any meaning to it. With the simple intention of just “feeling better”, I found that moving my body was the best cure. Research shows that trauma and emotional memory is stored in many places in the body (not just or even primarily, in the brain). So verbalizing our emotions can be really difficult when we’re just FEELING it! Emotion is also energy. It needs a place to go. Exercise is how I found this release.

Listen to your body

Instead of choosing one go-to workout to move through my emotions, I let my body do the deciding. If I felt anxious, I jumped on a spin beak to escape into a dark room filled with loud music. If I felt angry, I grabbed a set of heavy weights and fueled my deep muscle burn with inner rage. If I felt afraid or unsettled, I grounded my feat on a yoga mat for breath-work and intentional flow. Each type of movement addressed a different type of emotion.

Give yourself breaks from being “in it”

When people talk about grief, they often use a wave analogy. Grief comes in waves. Sometimes you choose to ride them and sometimes you don’t. By finding stillness to ride the big waves, I’ve had profound breakthroughs in terms of self-discovery and healing. But, I’ve realized that I need a break — to take a pass on occasion — in order to function day-to-day. As I mentioned previously, grieving takes up space. Sometimes we need a break to go out with girlfriends, play with our kids, and just enjoy sunshine, laughter and being happy!

Share your story

I started the process of sharing my story to raise money for Ian’s cancer treatments on GoFundMe. What I didn’t realize at the time was that this is how I was processing my anticipatory grief. And, after Ian died, I didn’t want to stop . I gained therapeutic value from not only writing the updates, but also receiving feedback from readers expressing how inspired they were, or who simply wanted to send their love and support.

Whether it’s on social media, in a private journal, talking about it with a therapist, or just with a good friend, sharing my story has supported my healing in so many ways. When we share our story we make sense of the insensible. We start to connect dots and draw parallels that we never thought existed. Instead of the victim asking “why me?”, we create our own “why”. While I’ve found inspiration from others’ stories, I know that others are inspired by mine. It’s been a beautiful, empowering, mutually-beneficial experience.

Surround yourself with love and support

Both Chloé and I attribute much of our ability to live with grief to the amazing support systems we have in place. What I’ve found though is that I was very selective of who I included in this sacred safety net. When you are grieving, there is only room for love and support. So surround yourself with people who emanate it! And be weary of sharing your precious energy with those who don’t.

Give yourself permission

I saved this tip for last because to me it’s like the golden rule of grief. Give yourself permission to to feel whatever you need to feel; to do whatever you need to do; to say whatever you need to say; and to just do you! There is no rule book. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. There are no “shoulds”. You are your best guide. Give yourself the permission to be the authority on your own grief journey!

Check out Chloe’s tip on her blog!

Have any tips that have helped you live with grief? Please share them in the comments below!

My First “Deathversary”

March 28, 2020

This photo was taken just as the sun was rising over the Mokoluas, shortly after Ian took his last breath of air on March 26, 2019. Within minutes of Auntie Kellie and the night nurse leaving his side to sneak in a quick coffee break — Ian left this earth and made his ascent into the stars, sun and sky. He went alone. He went before the kids woke up; before anyone could make a fuss about him leaving. He simply grabbed his surfboard and snuck away to ride the waves of the milky way in a galaxy, a realm, a celestial world that we will never know truly exists until it’s our time … perhaps.

Besides saying our final good byes, it was a rather ordinary day. The kids, other family members and I ate breakfast together. We walked the beach and played in the pool. Friends and I drank beers and went for a boat ride to the Mokoluas. For the most part, we went about our day as usual. The prior months, weeks and days overwhelmed by the pain of watching Ian struggle, the anxiety of determining our uncertain future, and the ultimate fear of him dying was gone. And, in its place was a surreal sense of resolve, peace and love.

I feel that same sensation exactly one year later.

That’s not to say it hasn’t been an extremely tumultuous journey to get here! Over the past 365 days I’ve tried my best to ride the waves of intense, varied emotions — anger, pure rage, sadness, guilt, profound joy — all of it. New experiences (dating and starting a business), reaching milestones without Ian (birthdays, anniversaries), and finding stillness among the chaos to discover my own truths and purpose, have opened the floodgates of feelings for me. And just recently, with the sudden global pandemic, I’ve never grieved more than I have in the past week and a half.

But these past weeks have ironically mirrored the days leading up to Ian’s death one year ago. Being forced to relinquish normalcy made me feel the same sadness over the loss of control, the same fear of uncertainty, and the same anxiety that my life might be very different when Ian was dying. Just as the days of watching Ian struggle and slowly fade away felt more traumatic and painful to me than his actual death, so did the days of leading up to his death anniversary.

I had already been anticipating Ian’s first death anniversary when businesses started closing and social distancing measures were advised. I had planned a 3-day solo trip to Sedona to hike, journal, pamper myself, soak up the sun, and heal. But with concerns over travel and contracting the virus, I cancelled my trip.

Luckily I still had an energy healing session planned in Colorado in hopes to connect with Ian and seek meaning in his loss. But as of last Tuesday, with the new Colorado shelter-in requirements, this plan got cancelled as well. To further complicate matters,Theo fractured his clavicle — landing us in the ER the same day (he is totally fine just in case you are worried).

Basically all of my plans — my idea of what Ian’s death anniversary should “look” like — changed in an instant. It was out of my control. And it took me a day to be pissed off, cry about it, and feel disappointment that things didn’t go as planned. But, ultimately I surrendered.

I took a step back and listened to the universe. I listened to Ian. He told me to stop worrying about grieving his death and instead go live in the now. So I did.

I found stillness, spending one whole day and two whole nights by myself at home. I drank coffee, read, and did yoga on my deck. I talked to my friend Christina who has walked my path before me and soaked up her words of wisdom. And despite beliefs around its validity, I found peace and connection to Ian by speaking with a medium. I went for a long hike. I watched trashy TV. I wrote. I cried and cried and cried some more. But instead of pain and sorrow, the tears felt cleansing. It was an intense day of feeling my emotions, but in doing so, I felt a huge release.

On March 26, 2020 (the day of Ian’s actually death anniversary) I woke up to watch the sunrise, then drove to Winter Park where some of Ian’s ashes remain. I spent time with my family talking stories about daddy, caught up with friends, and indulged in his favorite foods and drinks. Just like the day he died, it felt like a pretty normal day.

The storm had past. The seas were calm.

So why do I share all of this with you?

I share because as tragic and painful as Ian’s death has been, the experience has changed me. I’ve learned so much about myself and my perspective on life, and as I keep leaning into my hard emotions, I’m discovering more. So in sharing, I hope that others in similar situations can find comfort, hope and inspiration to seek out the light during the darkest of times — even though admittedly, it can hurt like hell. But, trust me! It’s worth it.

Anyone who has been through a loss knows that the first year anniversary is really tough. In reflecting on my own experience, here are some takeaways:

1.) The “deathversary” is just a day.

As much as I wanted Ian’s death anniversary to look and feel a certain way, life had other plans. So instead of getting upset that Corona Virus and Theo’s broken clavicle changed my plans, I tried my best to let go of my expectations and make the most of it — resulting in a glorious day of stillness spent by myself. Ian’s death anniversary is a date in time and that date will be what I make of it. Whether we like it or not, life happens in the now. And ultimately, I can grieve, miss Ian, and do my best to heal on any day!

2.) Healing starts from within.

I had planned my trip to Sedona and the energy healing session to find more clarity and meaning around Ian’s loss. And while these activities certainly foster the self-reflection needed to find the significance I was seeking, I discovered that I’m capable deriving the answers all by myself. For me, someone who struggles with stillness, these activities can almost be distractions. I have no doubt that I’ll take my trip to Sedona and try all sorts of different types of healings, but the takeaway here is that all of the answers, meaning and clarity were already there. I just needed stillness to listen and discover them.

3.) Trust in what you need and be open to how you receive it.

Most of my grief this year has been around the loss of the “role” of my husband. I’ve struggled with missing and maintaining my connection to Ian as the enthusiastic, carefree, fun-loving and genuine person he was. Now, I’ve never been very religious or spiritual, but since Ian’s passing I’m definitely more open minded and interested in exploring the metaphysical world. So, when I had the chance to speak with a medium before his death anniversary, I took it. As skeptical as I was going into it and am still processing everything after, it brought me the connection that I had been longing for. Whether I truly believe, whether I’m still questioning all the “hows” — in the moment, “connecting with Ian” is exactly what I needed. The rest is just the rest.

4.) Intense emotions need space to be felt.

I didn’t know how I was going to feel around Ian’s first death anniversary. But, I knew that I would need space. And, even though all of my plans around getting that necessary space fell through, I still made it a priority. I needed a break from the kids and my routine. I needed solitude. I needed stillness. And I felt my way through all of the pain and sadness to find the meaning I had been seeking.

5.) Grief is actually love.

When I told my friend Christina that I was actually surprised to be feeling love and gratitude the day before the deathversary, she helped me realize that grief is actually love. The pain, sadness, fear, anxiety, etc. are feelings elicited from the trauma of death. Once I worked through these emotions and really honed in on just my loss — what was left was love and gratitude. Love for the intense emotions felt between two human beings, and gratitude for the memories and all that he has left.

My first deathversary was tough. Weeks of emotional turmoil amplified by a global pandemic made it even harder. But, I’m grateful for it. The universe forced me to stop. To surrender. To let go of distractions and focus within. So I listened and it opened my eyes to the symmetry between my grief for Ian and the grief we’re experiencing globally. And, if there is meaning that comes from such tragedy, perhaps it’s for me to share these lessons with the world!

Dating is even more complicated as a widow

February 12, 2020

This article was originally published on Scary Mommy. Read the original post here.

PC: Talia Kite Photography

I’m a widow. I lost my husband, the father of my two children, to cancer just over 10 months ago. And, while, I miss my late husband, I also crave a new love. I had been feeling guilty about this until my four-year-old daughter admitted that she wanted a “new daddy” too.

It went like this:

Izzy: “Mommy, can we get a new daddy? I miss the old daddy who got sick and died.”

Me: “I miss him too. But daddy will always be in our hearts. We still love him.”

Izzy: “But I want a new one who can talk to me.”

Me: “We can get you a new daddy, but, mommy has to find you one.”

Izzy: “Let’s go buy one!!”

Me (laughing): “Ok, Izzy. Mommy will work on it.”

Izzy misses her daddy. But, she also wants a new one. I miss my partner. But, I also want a new one. We will never forget or stop loving my late husband — Izzy’s father — but we both crave something tangible.

Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and I want someone to hold me — other than my two children. I want someone to console me — other than my parents and friends. I want someone to love me and to share my life with. But when you’re looking for a new parter while grieving the loss of your old one, it makes dating, well … complicated!

Based on my own experiences dating as a widow, I’d like to share some insights shed some light on the complexities of dating after loss and eradicate any judgement — because we are all just trying our best to move forward with life. And, no one should be denied of love. A partner. Or, a new daddy.

So here it goes:

PC: Talia Kite Photography

Tip #1: Trust that she knows when “she’s ready” to date

I’ve heard a range of opinions regarding the appropriate timeline to date after a partner dies — “five years”, “one year”, “never”, “once I’m done grieving and moved on.” The answers vary and the reasons entertain. So, I decided that I would be my own judge. Let’s face it, do we ever know when we are “ready” to do anything? And, the grieving never truly ends.

About six months after I lost my husband, I downloaded a dating app. I had been spiraling downward into this depth of loneliness. I needed a distraction — even if it wouldn’t necessarily lead to anything. And it worked! I contently swiped away, messaging prospects and getting excited over potential dates — maybe even a future together! I went on a handful of dates, but what I discovered is that even though I was ready to date, my potential partners were not. My loss made them uncomfortable. Keep reading …

Tip #2: Don’t be afraid to talk about the death

I indicated that I had kids on my dating profile. So during the first date, the topic of their father always came up. When I shared that my children’s father had died and no, we were not divorced, I would get two standard reactions —

1.) Overly dwell on the death, how fragile I probably am, and speculate on my “readiness” to date (DUH, I’m here aren’t I?). Or…

2.) Completely dismiss the fact.

It would go like this…

Me: “My husband actually passed away from cancer about six months ago”

My date: “Oh wow. I’m sorry. So…what else do you like to do?”

Me: Smile awkwardly … pass!

Newsflash! Someone dying is a huge, traumatic, life altering event. If a widow brings this up, TALK TO HER about it. Or, at least a little bit. But DO NOT. I repeat, DO NOT just blaze over it and move on to her interests and hobbies, or what country she wants to travel to next.

Tip #3: Don’t underestimate her ability to love

After about one month on the app, I found someone who I actually liked. Someone who gave me those butterflies in my stomach again and who I could envision a future with. And his feelings seemed to match mine!

But, about three months into our relationship, the phone calls started to drop, we saw each other less frequently, and everything fizzled to an abrupt end. He dumped me.

What happened? I learned that Joe (his name for now) felt like a “placeholder.” Joe knew that I still loved my late husband. We didn’t “end it” by choice. Joe was aware of the void in my heart. And, he thought I was filling it with him. Joe believed that my feelings for him were temporary — just there to alleviate the pain from my loss.

While Joe was wrong, his concerns were valid. When the person you’re dating still loves her dead partner, questions and insecurities will naturally arise. So let’s break this down:

I loved my dead husband and had feelings for Joe at the same time.

My heart has room for both — old love and new.

Neither love diminishes, competes, or replaces the other love.

They are separate, yet they co-exist.

They co-exist in the sense that when we love someone, that love shapes us. A part of us is forever changed. We carry a piece of that person with us — whether the relationship ended by choice or not. We can hold love for one person, and be in love with somebody entirely new.

They are separate in the sense that the sole act of being is now. Being requires breathe, life and exists in the present. Being in love is feeling it in the flesh, having it reciprocated, and tangibly experiencing the magic of our world when we share it with someone else.