Why Moving On Isn’t My Goal
Learning to carry grief instead of leaving it behind
One of the phrases I’ve never quite connected with after loss is the idea of “moving on.”
It sounds neat. Clean. Final.
As if grief is something you eventually walk away from, close the door on, and leave behind.
But that has never been my experience. And I truly don’t think that’s how healing works.
After Jon passed away, I remember feeling like I was supposed to reach a point where everything would eventually feel “finished.” Like there would be a day when I would wake up and no longer feel the weight of loss.
But what I’ve learned over time is that grief doesn’t work on a finish line.
It changes.
It softens.
It shifts.
But it doesn’t disappear.
For me, the goal has never been to move on from Jon. The goal has been to move forward with my life while still carrying the reality of his absence.
There is a big difference between those two things.
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Missing Someone Isn’t the Same as Being Stuck in Grief
Why love and loss can coexist long after life moves forward
One of the things people often misunderstand about widowhood is the idea that if you still miss someone, you must not be “moving forward.”
I’ve heard versions of this over the years, sometimes spoken gently and sometimes just implied. The assumption is that healing means the absence of grief. That if you are doing well, functioning, rebuilding life, or even finding joy again, then the missing should disappear too.
But that’s not how grief works.
And it’s not how love works either.
Missing Jon today does not mean I am stuck in the past. It simply means he mattered deeply in my life. There is a difference between being stuck in grief and still carrying love for someone who is no longer here.
For me, grief has changed shape over the years. It is no longer the constant, heavy weight it once was in the early days. I am not living in survival mode anymore. I am not waking up every day trying to figure out how to get through the next hour.
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Do You Ever Stop Being a Widow?
Why widowhood remains part of my story nearly 17 years later
This post is the first in a series called What People Don't Understand About Widowhood, where I'll be sharing some of the realities of grief, healing, faith, and rebuilding life after loss that people often don't see.
One of the questions people don't ask out loud, but often seem to wonder, is this:
At some point, do you stop being a widow?
After all, it's been nearly 17 years since Jon passed away.
My children are grown.
One has graduated from college, and the other is entering his senior year.
I've rebuilt a life I never expected to have.
And I've been happily remarried to Heath for over eight years.
From the outside, it might seem like widowhood belongs in my past.
But the answer is no.
I am still a widow.
And I am also a wife.
Both things are true.
When Jon died, widowhood felt like the only thing I could see. Everything in my life was divided into "before" and "after."
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Letting Go of the Need to Explain Your Choices to Others
I’ve always had a tendency to overexplain things.
Not because anyone necessarily asked, but because I felt like I needed to justify what I was doing. As if my decisions needed to make sense to everyone around me in order to be valid.
After Jon passed, that feeling got even stronger.
I found myself explaining things that, when I look back now, really didn’t need an explanation at all.
I explained why I was able to stay home with my kids.
I explained how I could afford to add an addition onto our house.
I explained why I stopped wearing my wedding ring after nine months.
I explained why I chose to keep homeschooling instead of putting my kids in school.
I explained why I moved from Maine to New Hampshire.
And later…
I explained when I started dating.
I explained when I got remarried.
No matter what I did, it seemed like there were opinions.
Some people thought I was moving forward too quickly.
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Week 5: Grateful for Love—Then and Now
This part of my story holds both deep sorrow and unexpected joy.
I will always be grateful for the godly man I was privileged to call my husband. He was strong, faithful, and deeply committed to our family. He prayed over us, led us with wisdom, and lived his life in a way that quietly impacted so many. His love shaped me. His example pointed others to Christ. I miss him every day.
Even now, years later, I still feel his absence. I still tear up when I hear certain songs or see our children do something he would have been proud of. And yet, woven into that grief is gratitude. Deep, steady, sacred gratitude—for the years we had, the memories we made, and the way God used him to leave a lasting legacy.
And then… God surprised me.
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