Every July, like clockwork, my body and soul remind me: This is when everything changed.

Back in July 2021, my husband James was diagnosed with metastatic melanoma. I can still see that summer so clearly because it had all the makings of something beautiful. We were knee-deep in adoption paperwork for our son, building a greenhouse, and creating a life that felt solid and soul-aligned. I thought we were entering our blooming season.

But life had other plans. And by "plans," I mean a complete undoing of everything I thought I knew.

The diagnosis came like a sucker punch from the universe. No matter how hard we tried to keep moving forward, that summer became a fork in the road I never wanted to take. And the version of our life we were building? It never got to bloom. And honestly, for a long time, neither did I.

When the Life You Imagined Doesn't Happen

Here's the thing nobody really tells you: sometimes you do everything right, and life still shows up like an emotional support goose; chaotic, hissing, and absolutely not here to help. 🪿

It's not always fair. It's not always a lesson tied up with a pretty little bow. Sometimes, it's just loss. And you're left sitting in the rubble, holding pieces of a life that no longer fits.

And even now, years later, I'll be folding laundry or standing in the garden and BAM 💥 I'm hit with the reality: my old life is really gone. My husband really died. This is really my life now.

Navigating Life's Hidden LEGO Minefield

Lately, I've been navigating what I lovingly call a "personal Hellscape." It's not the dramatic movie trailer kind. It's more like navigating a pitch-black hallway barefoot while stepping on strategically placed LEGOs. 🧱

It's not constant, it's not catastrophic, but wow, when it hits, it HURTS. The kind of pain that makes you pause mid-step, question all your life choices, and mutter, "Really? That's what takes me out today?!"

And then, just like that, you limp forward. Because what else can you do?

Romanticizing the Past Won't Bring It Back (Unfortunately)

It's easy to look back on the "before" and romanticize it until it sparkles. I do it all the time. I miss that life. But here's the tough truth: that version of my life doesn't exist anymore.

What does exist is this moment. Right now. The messy, beautiful, half-blooming chaos that I get to call mine.

And I'm realizing that the lessons I learned from the life that didn't go as planned? They're not wasted. I carry them with me every single day. They're the reason I'm rebuilding; not as the same woman, but as someone who knows what it means to love deeply, lose deeply, and still keep showing up.

To Anyone Who's Feeling Lost Right Now:

Maybe you haven't lost a person. Maybe you've lost a dream, a version of yourself, or the future you thought you'd have. Let me just say: I see you.

It's okay to grieve what was. It's okay to scream internally at the unfairness of it all. And it's okay to start over, even if you don't feel ready.

Life doesn't always bloom on the timeline we expect. But that doesn't mean the growing season is over. Sometimes, it just means you're becoming someone new.

And honestly? That version of you might be more powerful, more grounded, and more you than you ever imagined.

So here's to blooming in unexpected seasons. Even when it hurts. Even when it's messy. Even when the plan completely unravels.

Because maybe, just maybe, the life that's still unfolding is the one that was meant for you all along.

Let's Talk:

If you've ever had a moment where life went completely off script, I'd love to hear about it. Drop a comment below or come hang out with me over on Instagram @onthecreekblog. Let's remind each other that we're not alone, especially on the hard days.

🖤 Tiff

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2. Journal

4. Cozy Blanket

If you've ever wandered outside with big "I'm gonna fix everything today" energy only to stare at your yard like it's an emotional crime scene... hi, welcome. You're in the right place.

As someone with a squirrel brain and the patience of a wet cat, I LOVE seeing things get done quickly. Like instant gratification or 'I don't want it' levels of urgency. But being a widow? Oh, she had other plans.

The Before Times: Teamwork Makes the Dream Work

When James was still here, our house projects were tag-team magic. He handled the heavy lifting, and I handled the perfectionism. We were the DIY power couple; emotionally attached to our toolbox and suspiciously invested in which mulch color was "right for our vibe."

But when you suddenly go from "we" to "me"? It hits different. And by "hits," I mean it feels like the to-do list got longer while your emotional bandwidth got shorter.

The Brutal Truth: It's ALL You Now

Life is full of surprises—some sweet, some bitter. Lately, I've been feeling the bitter side as I face waves of grief that come crashing back, even three years after losing my husband, James. It's clear now that grief doesn't follow a timetable or fade away completely. It shifts, changes, and sometimes hits harder than before, making me reflect on the times we could have shared together.

Grief Doesn't Clock Out

On tough days, I catch myself being hard on myself, thinking, "It's been three years; shouldn't I be past this?" But grief isn't something that ends. While the initial shock isn't as sharp, the heart doesn't easily forget the "what ifs" and lost shared moments that linger, especially during times when I miss having James by my side.

A Sign in a Song

Sometimes, just when I need it most, life throws me a little nudge to keep going. Recently, there was a song by Dylan Scott called "What He'll Never Have." It felt like it was played just for me, perfectly capturing the essence of James's spirit. James was always a giver, never hesitating to lend a hand. The song reminded me that he wanted me to continue embracing life, sharing our dreams, and accepting that our unique love is irreplaceable.

Moving Forward Without Moving On

James encouraged me to live fully and find happiness again, even in his absence. That means moving forward, not moving on. Our love was ours alone, crafted by moments and memories no one else can replicate. Accepting that my path has veered in new directions is challenging but crucial. Life and love can still be fulfilling—just in a new and different way.

Conclusion: Embracing the Journey

Each day offers a fresh chance to heal, learn, and find joy. Though I revisit the depths of grief at times, I also encounter signs of hope and new beginnings. My journey through grief is about integrating this experience into my life, allowing it to shape me without defining me. As I navigate this complex emotional landscape, I am reminded of life's enduring beauty and the promise of new opportunities.

The Adrenaline of Year One

In that first whirlwind year without James, I ran on pure adrenaline. It's like my body and mind went into survival mode, fueled by a frantic need to "fix" my life. I was getting by on maybe three hours of sleep a night, and yet, somehow, I still had the energy to face each new day. It was as if my spirit refused to slow down, afraid of what would happen if it did.

The Weight of Year Two

But here I am in year two, and the adrenaline has worn off. The reality—that this is my life now, and there's no magic wand to change it—has settled in. And it's heavy, y'all. I've had days where I could sleep for hours, and sometimes, I do just that. It's like my body is making up for all the rest it didn't get in that first frantic year.

The Emotional Rollercoaster

Don't get me wrong; I've found pockets of joy and moments of peace. I've learned to accept my life as it is, but acceptance doesn't mean I have to like it. The truth is, I hate that it had to be this way. I hate that Braxton has to grow up without his dad, and I hate that I have to navigate this world without my partner. But here's the thing: it's okay to feel this way. It's okay to be angry, sad, and tired, all while finding moments of happiness.

Final Thoughts

So, if you're going through something similar, know it's okay to feel all the feelings. It's okay to be exhausted. And most importantly, it's okay to give yourself grace. We're all just doing the best we can, and that's enough.

I am sending you all love and light during these complex times.