Loneliness

Loneliness is another unwanted companion; I think of it as Grief’s little brother. Grief slams into you without warning, suddenly causing you to hold on for dear life, clinging to anyone or anything that offers a lifeline. But loneliness sneaks into your life quietly, like a shadow cast upon your heart; that slowly grows bigger. It wasn't until I lost Rick that I understood the weight of this feeling, the profound impact it could have on my life, and how it would transform even the most familiar relationships.

Through my writing this blog, I have shared the conflicts that move inside of me during grief. It’s confusing and erratic; still struggling to make sense of it all. It’s like I am a stranger in my own head, and I don’t understand the language or the terrain. I was desperately trying to understand it and navigate it, all without a compass. So, I stand there frozen, eyes squeezed shut, hoping when I open them it will be back to the way it was. Rick would still be alive! Disappointment would wash over me when I realized this was my new reality. He was gone forever. When I look at it that way, if it is difficult for me to understand this path and I can’t make sense of it all, I can imagine it would be even harder for those around me to have any idea what they could do for me.

In the beginning, the loss of him was all-consuming. It wasn’t simply trying to survive my loss; it was all the other things that came with suddenly being alone. I listened to different music, I went into a spiritual crisis, I didn’t sleep, rarely ate, coffee in the morning made me want to fade away into nothingness. The silence in the house screamed at me that Rick was dead. Being alone was utterly terrifying. My attention span was non-existent, so I couldn’t even find solace within the pages of a book. If I needed help, it was always Rick there to hold me up, now the only person who showed up for me was, well. Me and at this point, I was useless. He was the only one who could end this pain for me, and it was impossible for him to come back to me.

It didn’t take me but a few days to figure out I couldn’t survive this alone. I got really good at asking for help. In the beginning I felt weak for asking for help especially from my adult children. I was so ashamed. There was a time I was the confident and optimistic matriarch of our family. Now, looking back I see how incredibly brave that was, it wasn’t a weakness. It demonstrated my will to keep going and to never give up. I loathed how much everything changed, it was a constant reminder he was gone! I couldn’t watch our shows, didn’t want to go out to dinner like we did every Wednesday. Evenings were the worst because I missed our chats over dinner and talking about life. He and I sitting on the couch comfortably together binge watching our favorite shows. I often think about the simplicity in our lives together. It was safe and comfortable. I was not only happy, but I was also content. Every facet of my life was touched by the void he left behind. It was as if the sun had gone out, leaving me in perpetual darkness. It was indeed the darkest night of my soul and I’m not sure when I decided I would survive this.

Friends and family rallied around me, offering their support and condolences, and their presence was a lifeline during those first horrific weeks and months. But as time went on, I began to notice a subtle shift in these relationships. People around me had their own lives to lead, which is understandable. Their worlds continued to turn, while mine felt frozen in that moment when I saw his eyes. It wasn't that they didn't care or empathize, but rather that the chasm between my grief consumed life and their unchanged life was widening. My grief had become an uncomfortable topic, a heavy cloud that hung over our conversations, so a few left me behind.

Some of those who went on with their lives stunned me. Others were not shocking to me at all. When it happened, I was powerless to do anything about it. Logically I knew it had to be some misunderstanding, but I was in survival mode, emotionally exhausted so I did nothing but cry for another loss. I had all the grace for them in the beginning. I understood how hard it must be to listen to me cry for my dead husband. When I tried to sound “normal” or laugh it sounded hollow and forced. Besides, I was determined to be congruent in my grief no matter what the cost. It cost me three of my best friendships and now I understand if we were as connected as I thought we were, this would never have happened. There were the  others continued to be there as much as they could inside of their own busy lives, many of them living on the other side of the country. Still, they text and check on me often. They called. And called and called again. Even if I didn’t answer, they understood that I still needed them to call, but I may not have the energy to answer. They were okay with that because deep down they knew. It wasn’t about them.

My adult children did their absolute best too while trying to manage their own grief, even with two of them living in Washington. I got to experience first-hand that they understood the meaning of “family is everything.” However, coping with my broken heart, it was impossible for me to be there for them the way I knew I needed to be. I was in survival mode. I had nothing else to give. Knowing all of this, it still hurt my mommy’s heart that in this moment in time, I was incapable of consoling my children who were hurting, too. Their World was rocked with the sudden death of Rick, and I wanted to be there for them, I truly did. The fact that I wasn’t causes me immense guilt and in the same breath I am so proud of those humans Rick and I made. They seem to understand, and they have never made me feel inadequate.

My adult children are in the thick of raising their own children. I remember those days when Rick and I did nothing but work and parent, and of course shuttle them around to all of their sports activities. I live an hour away from Kayla and Wade and because of school, it is difficult for them to come over during the week. Our Sunday dinners all but disappeared. I desperately needed something to feel like it hadn’t changed since everything else had. I didn’t want to make anyone feel guilty, so I would ask if we could please start Sunday dinners up again. When we lived in Washington, everyone knew Sunday dinner wasn’t really optional and yet somehow being here with Rick gone, it now is. It was weighing heavily on me, and I could feel the loneliness growing and pressing down upon me.

For me, loneliness isn't only about physical solitude; it's about feeling disconnected from those around me. I realized that my friends and family, although well-intentioned, couldn't fully comprehend the depth of my loss. It's not their fault; it's simply the nature of grief. No two people experience it in the same way, and no amount of empathy can bridge that gap entirely. And so the feeling of isolation and loneliness grows. I knew this was my next “layer” that I had to learn and grow from, so I started to face it head on.

In this journey through loneliness, I've come to understand that it's not a reflection of the love and support that surrounds me. My family still care deeply, but they can't be my sole source of solace. Even though I long for the life before Rick died: our family was inseparable. We were always going out together and having fun. Whether it was taking a trip to Vegas,  going to the karaoke bar, to the casino, or a simple dinner and a movie, we enjoyed each other’s company. Now that it’s only me, it’s changed even if we don’t want to admit it. It makes the loneliness worse and while it's a harsh truth to accept, I have to acknowledge that things can’t always stay the same. That is a part of life and deep down I knew it had nothing to do with me and yet my heart felt like it did.

I know I need to find connection and meaning in this new World I inhabit. I am not an extrovert, so going out and meeting new people is not an option for me. However, I will try and connect more with current friends that I have.  Life is still not easy, and most days, loneliness claws at my heart. But I've discovered that there are ways to alleviate the ache. Firstly, I've learned to lean into the moments of solitude. I've found solace in reading, writing, and rediscovering forgotten passions. In the quiet, I've discovered parts of myself I had long neglected. I work on my mindfulness, meditation, and yoga every day. Secondly, I've sought out support groups. Sharing my grief with others who've experienced a similar loss has provided a sense of connection that is essential in combating loneliness. I have two best friends I still speak with daily, and I look forward to each time we talk on the phone. It’s an important connection for me. I gravitate towards people who knew and loved Rick, too. Lastly, I've come to understand that my relationship with my husband didn't end with his passing. It has transformed into a different kind of connection, one that lives on in my memories, my heart, and the lessons he taught me about love, resilience, and strength.

For me, loneliness after the loss of a loved one has been one of the hardest human conditions to endure. It's a path that none of us chooses, but it's one we must walk, nonetheless. It's a journey that reshapes not only our relationships with others but also our relationship within ourselves. And as I continue down this uncertain road, I hold on to the hope that, in time, loneliness will be a less frequent visitor, and the warmth of connection will be renewed.