My husband died on May 7, 2023. And when he died, it felt like I died too. I couldn’t imagine coming back from this. I had experienced loss before, but this was the first time I came face to face with grief—and it was winning. Grief stole my voice before I even realized it was gone. I couldn’t find the words to describe the emptiness of waking up alone after so many years with him by my side.
I wasn’t just mourning the love of my life; I was mourning a life I no longer recognized—a future I hadn’t prepared to face. Every day brought the same unanswerable questions: Why me? What now?
For a long time, I moved through those days in silent agony, unsure of what I would do or feel ever again. I wasn’t just grieving Andre; I was grieving the certainty, the security, the life I had always counted on. Losing him so early fractured my faith, and I no longer knew where to turn or what came next.
In my search for healing, I did what so many grieving people are told to do—I joined a bereavement group. I walked in hopeful, searching for a place to lay down some of the weight I’d been carrying. But almost instantly, I felt out of place. The room was filled with sorrow, yet it didn’t feel like mine. The grief I saw belonged to lives so different from my own—shaped by other cultures, carried in ways I couldn’t relate to. They didn’t look like me. They didn’t grieve like me.
I found myself just occupying space, often feeling restless. My mind would drift during the sessions. Why am I even here? I wondered. I’m not sure this is helping me. I seemed to be searching for something I couldn’t quite find in that space. We were all grieving our husbands, yet deep down, I still didn’t feel like I belonged.
After the bereavement group, I decided to try therapy. I called the pastor who had married us twenty-five years ago—it felt like coming full circle. He was also a licensed therapist, and somehow, those two roles spoke directly to the places I was most broken: my fractured heart and my fractured faith.
In that space, I began the slow, uncertain journey of healing, gathering the courage to look inward—into parts of myself I had never truly met. And in those quiet, aching moments, I started to find the pieces of me again. Not the woman I was before, but someone new. Someone becoming.
As I stumbled through the mess of grief, I began to sense that this burden was guiding me toward something more. That thought stayed with me and grew louder as I met other widows navigating lives reshaped by grief. In their stories, I heard echoes of my own isolation, my own longing to be seen and understood. And then I realized—I wasn’t just finding my way through grief; I was being called to light the way for others.
I realized I wanted to build spaces where widows could speak freely and exist without apology—places free of platitudes, free from judgment, and free from the need to explain why part of you still reaches for the past even as you try to move forward. So, I became certified in grief education and immersed myself in everything I could learn.
Helping other widows has become a kind of medicine—for them and for me. I no longer ask, “Why me?” Instead, I ask, “What now?” Not from despair, but with renewed curiosity and direction.
Maybe this isn’t the end of my story, but the start of a new chapter.
Sharing my story helped me find my voice—a voice that sparked the vision for Widow’s Journey: Reach One, Teach One, Inc.
This isn’t just a place for healing—it’s a place for purpose. And in helping others heal, I find healing, too.
So, on May 7, 2025—the second anniversary of my husband’s death—I honor this day not in grief, but with purpose, marking it as the start of something new.
And so, it begins—
My new life.
My new story.
My new voice.
You see, my voice was never truly lost.
It was becoming, too.
