Reminder to myself: you must go on

Reflections from two years into widowhood

photo by hallie kohler

This post was written in early 2019, two years into widowhood. I thought about updating it and editing it to better suit my life today, but I think there is a lot of power in sharing notes and reflections from a time deep in grief.

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“You must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.”

For two years, I’ve had this Samuel Beckett quote at the top of my notes. Each morning, as I begin my writing for the day, I read it and feel the truth of the complexities of loving and losing and living in the aftermath. For two years, it has been the quiet back-and-forth of my inner dialogue. For two years, I have had to verbally remind myself that, in spite of it all, I must go on.

Two years ago, I didn’t think I could.

Two years ago, my vocal, opinionated, extroverted husband whispered his final words. I held his hand and said, “I love you.” Brad looked me in the eyes, smiled, and replied with this one small word: “Yes.” His body would hold on for another day, but that would be the final verbal exchange between the two of us.

When I think back to that day two years ago, I didn’t think I could go on. I didn’t think I could live through the pain of not having Brad in my life. I didn’t sleep. I sobbed on the floor for hours. I drank away my pain. I regularly thought to myself, “I can’t go on.”

But two years later, I have gone on.

I went on, not just because of my own strength and desire to live. But also because Brad deserved nothing less. I refused to waste my life when Brad’s was so unfairly cut short. I went on, in part, because of Brad's profound influence on me. Brad didn’t ever choose the easy path. He could have easily made more money, but chose to work in non-profits, serving his community. He could have lived in Boston or DC or Portland, but chose Detroit. He could have married any one of his many admirers who demanded less (hi ladies!), but he chose me. He could have talked his way through anything, but he chose to listen. He could have played it safe, but he chose risks. He chose courage. More than anything else, he chose a life of meaning.

Leading by example, Brad challenged me to be courageous. He emboldened me to ask the tough questions. He encouraged me to use my voice. He chased high expectations and big dreams. Witnessing someone reach for a life that substantial was infectious, and it inspired me to reach further too.

Two years ago, Brad looked me in the eyes, smiled, and said, “Yes.” That yes wasn’t just about loving me. It was about all the choices he had made — all the choices we had made in our life together.

And in the past two years, when I’d lie in my bed and cry and think “I can’t go on,” I inevitably think back to Brad's “yes” and I know:

I will go on.