Yesterday marked two years since my wife, Kim, passed away.
I posted a tribute on Facebook yesterday, and much of what I remembered was joyful. That’s appropriate. Kim loved to have fun, and authentically remembering her means remembering the laughter, the adventures, and the wonderful life we built together. But I don’t want all that happiness to suggest that yesterday wasn’t also a very somber day for me. It was.
I’ve learned over the past two years that those feelings don’t have to compete with each other. I can be deeply saddened that Kim is gone and extraordinarily grateful that she was here. I can miss the life we had while appreciating the life I still have. I can laugh at a memory of something ridiculous she did and, moments later, feel the weight of knowing I’ll never experience that moment with her again.
For a while, I think I expected one emotion to eventually replace the other. Maybe healing meant the sadness would gradually recede and happiness would take its place. That hasn’t really been my experience. Instead, with the help of Daniel, my grief counselor, I’ve become better at holding both.
There’s a sobriety that comes with significant, unexpected loss. You understand things about life differently once something you thought would be there tomorrow suddenly isn’t. I wouldn’t have chosen the experience that taught me that, and I certainly wouldn’t suggest that loss is somehow necessary for growth.
But I can acknowledge that it has matured me. Life can be wonderful and heartbreaking at the same time. Gratitude doesn’t require pretending something doesn’t hurt. And sadness doesn’t require surrendering the joy that remains. Maybe that’s what it means for a heart to go on. Not to leave behind what broke it, but to grow large enough to carry the sorrow and the joy together.
Two years later, I still miss Kim tremendously. And I still smile when I think about her. Neither diminishes the other. I’ve learned to hold both.