Selena Robins, Author

It’s still hard to believe that seven years ago, I had no idea how I was going to get through a single day, let alone a month or a future, without the love of my life, my husband, best friend, favourite conversationalist, and the calm to my chaos.

The only person who truly appreciated my “Lucy moments,” quirks, and my talent for singing off-key to Beatles songs while cooking dinner.

It’s been seven years since I last held his hand.

Seven years of being grateful when he visits me in dreams.

Seven years of learning how to keep breathing.

Seven years of learning how to coexist with grief in a world where his smile and laughter no longer fill the room, and his voice only lives in memories.

Grief, as anyone who’s lived it knows, isn’t just a temporary visitor. It becomes an annoying roommate who never pays rent and leaves emotional clutter everywhere.

For the first few years after we lost him, it felt like an immovable boulder was pressing down on my chest. But slowly, and with a lot of deep breaths, questionable haircuts, mindless TV marathons, and late-night pep talks with family and friends, it has shifted.

Living with grief for the past seven years has taught me that there’s still space for laughter, joy, and new adventures. While adjusting to a life I never envisioned has been challenging, it is manageable.

I’ve learned that the only way to get through each day is to shape my life and make decisions on my terms, my way, and on my timeline.

It taught me to bulk up my “grief muscles,” slowly, never to strive for perfection, because that’s impossible, but to keep a steady pace.

These past seven years have taught me that I can still carry the weight of loss yet still see light and happiness.

Time hasn’t dulled how much I miss him. Not one bit, and some days, it aches, like a pulled muscle in the heart. But I keep going because I can still hear his voice telling me: You’ve got this.

I still catch myself reaching for the phone to text him some random trivia or a meme he would’ve loved. For a second, I forget he’s not on the other end. But I like to think he gets the message anyway.

A great deal has changed over these seven years. I’ve ventured on a new path with teaching and writing, and I’ve learned new skills. Though I’m sure he’d question my gardening choices and DIY projects and tease me with laughter.

There are no manuals for navigating widowhood; you figure it out one day at a time, one tear at a time, and one bite of chocolate at a time.

I’m forever grateful for the life and love we shared. Every day, I work to honour his legacy of positivity, his deep love for family and faith, and celebrate his special days with his favourite meal and treats.

David left behind a trail of laughter, love, and treasured memories, and each day brings different emotions, especially on dates like today, the last day of his life on earth. But each day also brings me the opportunity to cherish our memories together, our adventures, the fun, our late-night talks, and our love.

I still talk to him, sometimes out loud, and feel his presence in the silence that follows.

I’m grateful that my family speaks his name often and that we share his stories. Because real love doesn’t vanish, it just changes shape and continues to grow with us and walk beside us.

To anyone travelling the winding path of widowhood, filled with emotional landmines, detours, and unexpected turns, keep moving forward at your own pace. Smile through the tears. Cry when you want to and laugh when you can.

And know; you’ve got this.

Dedicated to my beloved David, whom I miss, love, and cherish. Always.