The Messy, Beautiful Truth: I’m Not Drowning
If you walked into my dining room right now, you’d see a snapshot of a life that is—by traditional standards—a bit of a disaster. There are board games, half-finished LEGOs, napkins scattered like confetti, and a precarious tower of takeout sauces from various meals, serving as a makeshift centerpiece. My house isn’t the cleanest. There is dust on the baseboards and a permanent pile of laundry in my laundry room. When my husband passed away, I looked at this life and felt certain it would all collapse. I was convinced that grief would be the weight that finally pulled me under. I thought for sure I would fail. I feared I’d lose the home he worked so hard to provide us with, that I’d be unable to keep a job, and that my emotions would become a permanent, unpredictable storm I couldn’t navigate. Most of all, I feared I wouldn’t be enough to raise our son. But here is the thing about the "mess" on my table: I am not drowning. For two solid years following his death, I didn'...