As I sit in my living room on the eve of Justin’s ninth death anniversary, I find myself wondering: has it gotten any easier?
The short answer is HELL NO! But because I feel like I owe it to my followers and supporters to be transparent about my grief journey, I cannot give a short answer today.
And that’s because, in some ways, it is easier. I would think that to anyone who’s recently lost a spouse or child or sibling or best friend or parent, that might give you hope.
Why should that give you hope?
Doesn’t the anniversary getting easier signify that my love for Justin has faded? Doesn’t it mean that I miss him less, think about him less, and grieve him less?
No! It definitely does not.
After nine years, I still cry a lot. I still think about him every day. I still find myself wondering what life would look like if he was still here. I still hurt and I still love him.
Don't mistake the word "easier" for "easy"
I never said it was “easy,” I just said easier. There are plenty of reasons for that, one of them being time. Even though I do not believe in the sentiment, “time heals all wounds,” I do think it helps.
Think about it like a scar. Some wounds are too deep and severe to ever properly heal. No matter how well you care for that wound, it will turn into a scar. And no matter how much bio-oil, olive oil, or coconut oil you put on that scar, it will always be a scar.
Grief is just like that scar on our hearts, minds, emotions, and souls. And just like that scar, our grief fades a little over time because time helps us carry it better.
Taking good care of our grief wounds
What if we never bandaged that wound or washed it? It would get pretty funky and eventually, it would kill us. I think grief is the same.
Just like a physical injury, we must properly care for this emotional wound. If we don’t, we will not learn to carry our grief better over time. Instead, we will find ourselves ten years down the road staring at an older face with a heart that’s frozen in time.
Some days, my heart still feels frozen. Some moments, my grief is so intense that banging my head against the wall would be a welcomed relief.
But, unlike in the early days, my urge to itch this scratch has lessened because of one major difference — perspective.
I've tasted joy again
I’ve done my fair share of savoring my grief and I’m glad to say that, I prefer joy to pain.
Just like our joy can include moments of stress, anxiety, and fear. Our grief can include moments of joy, laughter, and pleasure.
I’ve learned to embrace the joy with the grief while realizing they will always take up equal space in my heart.
Call them my widowed perspective.
Justin’s death anniversary will always be hard because it’s a deafening reminder of the most traumatic day of my life. It’s also a massive pill to swallow upon realizing how much life he has missed.
Another reason why it's gotten easier
I miss him hard, and I always will. I certainly don’t need a specific day to “miss him” on because, to me, every day is hard.
Unlike almost everyone else (excluding his immediate family), I live the death anniversary all year long.
Every day is a day he’s missing. Every day is a day he’s dead. Every day is a day his son doesn’t know him. Every day is a day I cannot hear his voice or hug him or listen to him play guitar.
Every single day is like a death anniversary to me and that makes days like today a little bit easier.
For a deeper dive into death anniversaries and how to navigate them, grab a copy of my book here
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I’ve got a lot of good Justin stories, probably more than anybody. I saw him at his best and his worst. I was one of the rare people that he was his true authentic self around.
He wasn’t a mommas boy, but he sure loved his momma. 
Justin’s heart was kind. He had a way of making everyone feel included, especially if you were an outsider. 
Justin and my dad got into it, not once, but a few dozen times while playing board games and poker games. Justin had every right to be a jerk and never speak to my dad again. He could have used the arguments against me. He could have told me, “We’re never spending time with your family again.” 
Justin always opened my door, and he always made me feel special. One day that meant rubbing my feet, and the next that meant fetching me Taco Bell when I was pregnant. 
Justin was loyal, almost to a default. Short of killing a family member or committing some other heinous act, he would not leave your side.
