Today, I am struggling. Truly, deeply struggling. Today, I feel utterly alone. Today, it just feels heavy—like the weight of the world is pressing down on me.
I have four incredible kids. Even though I tease them constantly, they amaze me every single day. Two are serving in the military, one is finishing college on a full scholarship at a very prestigious university, and one teenager is still at home, navigating life’s ups and downs. When my late husband, Chad, and I reconnected, we both brought children into our marriage—he had a son, I had a son and a daughter—and together, we had a daughter, now 16. She was just 11 when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and 13 when he passed. I cannot even find words that capture the depth of my grief, the sheer hatred for that disease, and the void it left. Even writing this makes my throat tighten, my chest ache, and my eyes burn. Oh, God, you have no idea how much I hate it.
When I married Chad, I had been divorced for about three years. My daughter was six, my son four. Their father was absent, and I was a struggling single mom, working primarily for the health insurance because after childcare expenses, there was barely enough left to breathe. My mom helped as much as she could, but she was grieving too, having recently lost her husband, while also trying to keep her own life together. Life was hard—really hard. And then Chad returned. Somehow, everything just fit. We had loved each other since high school, and now, years later, that love found its way back. I wanted nothing more than to be with him, all the time. He wanted the same. My children adored him, and he adored them in return. It just…worked. For fifteen years, we built a life, honored our vows, and walked through every challenge side by side. He became a father to my children in the most natural way, never trying to replace their biological dad, but adding a richness, a warmth, a love that went beyond the title of “stepdad.” He was, quite simply, their bonus—and oh, what a blessing that bonus was.
When our little family came together, we were broken, stressed, and exhausted. Chad somehow made everything better. He brought laughter into our lives, lazy Sunday mornings, late-night barbecues, science projects, poker games, board games, and impromptu adventures. He taught us loyalty, trust, compassion, generosity, and calm in the storm. He showed us what ordinary, beautiful life could look like when filled with love and patience. He loved me, yes—but he absolutely cherished his children, and they knew it.
Teenagers, as we all know—or remember—can be moody, angsty, and hard to reach. I worried about my older daughter, who had a complicated relationship with her biological father and tended to retreat into herself. I feared the teenage years would strain her bond with Chad. And yet, he had this effortless way of connecting. I’ll never forget waking up at 2 a.m. one Saturday to find my bed empty. I wandered the house and found him in the recliner, my daughter on the couch, both silently watching TV. The next day, I asked why she had been up so late. His simple response floored me: “That’s what they do.” I asked what they had talked about. “Everything and nothing. We just watch Saturday Night Live. If she wants to talk, she does. If she doesn’t, she doesn’t.” That was it. He knew exactly what he was doing—forming bonds over laughter, popcorn, and Kit-Kats. The same way he patiently let my son shadow him everywhere, or learned every word to our little one’s favorite Hannah Montana song—he just knew. He always knew how to do it right.
And now…he’s gone. Pancreatic cancer stole him, and with him, it feels like it stole pieces of our lives too. I don’t know how to do it without him. I don’t know how to be calm, patient, or spontaneous all the time. I don’t know how to sit in silence watching TV, cook on the grill, or orchestrate simple joys like science projects or Sunday mornings. He was the magic behind those moments, and now, I’m left learning how to be me without him.
A few days ago, I had an argument with my teenage daughter. I don’t remember what about—it doesn’t matter. What mattered was what she said through her tears: something I never thought I’d hear. Something I had dreaded for years. She said, plainly and heartbreakingly: “None of this would be happening if Dad didn’t die.”
I was speechless, even though I had been quietly preparing for this for three years. I wanted to protest, to tell her she was wrong. I wanted to cling to the notion that life could continue the same way, despite the loss. But she was right. Absolutely right. It’s not the same. We no longer dance in the kitchen spontaneously, plan last-minute trips, build blanket forts, or spend warm summer nights outside with friends and neighbors. That life, that vibrant, carefree life—ended the day he did.
And that’s where I find myself struggling. Our life is divided into two: before Chad, and after Chad. And, honestly, I’m frustrated that we have to endure the second part.
Since that day, I’ve been searching for a way to reclaim our life—or at least pieces of it. Maybe I should host friends more often. Maybe I should learn to BBQ again. Maybe I should play more board games, learn every song, bake cupcakes, or simply give myself more grace. Maybe it’s time to forgive myself—for not saving him, for not maintaining our life exactly as it was, for not being able to do it all. Maybe it’s time to recognize the woman I am becoming, the mother I am striving to be, and the life we can still have—even if it’s not the life we planned. Maybe it’s time to let go of “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve,” and just be present. Life may never be the same, but it can still be beautiful.
Yes. Maybe it should be. And maybe, just maybe, you should, too. I’m willing to try. I’m willing to be happy again. And I hope you are too. Because, friends…it’s time. It really is. Let’s do it. Together.
