What Melanoma Awareness Month Feels Like After Losing My Husband

May is Melanoma Awareness Month.

And every year, it stirs up the same quiet storm inside me.

It’s been three and a half years since my husband, James, died from metastatic melanoma. Even now, I still don’t fully know how to exist this month. I support the cause. I share the posts. I believe in the research. But I also don’t fit into the “awareness” box.

Because nothing about our story followed the typical script.

There Was No Warning

James didn’t have any signs or symptoms. There wasn’t a weird mole he ignored, nor was there any sun damage he brushed off.

He found a lump under his arm — and from that moment on, everything changed.

Because it was melanoma, he was referred to dermatology to look for a mole that might’ve triggered it. But there wasn’t one. They took off one mole, just to be safe — and it was benign. Not even questionable. Just… nothing.

And still, we lost him.

I don’t blame his doctors. I really don’t. I know they did the best they could with what they had.

But the truth is that the research isn’t moving fast enough. The funding isn’t enough. And I hate that families are still sitting in rooms like we did, getting answers that aren’t answers at all.

The Aftermath Is Its Own Kind of Grief

And then there’s the part no one prepares you for — the after.

The part where you have to build a life you didn’t choose. You wake up in a story you never auditioned for, surrounded by people who weren’t in your original cast, wondering if they’re safe to trust.

I used to feel grounded. Rooted.

Now, I scan every room — and every text — for danger. For clues. For signs that someone might not be who they say they are. Because I had the real thing. And losing that cracked something wide open in me.

Everyone Grieves Differently (and That’s Okay)

I want to say something really clearly:

There’s no one way to grieve.

Some people talk about their person all the time. Some people barely say their names.

Some people build foundations. Some just try to make it to the next day.

Some of us do all of that — sometimes in the same week.

Grief doesn’t come with a rulebook. Just a million tiny decisions you make to survive the unthinkable.

But There’s Still Hope — Even Now

And even though this month still knocks the wind out of me, I still believe in hope.

Not in the fluffy, inspirational-quote way — but in the real, gritty way.

Hope looks like waking up and trying again. It looks like lighting a candle. Telling the truth. Loving people deeply, even when it scares you.

It’s believing we can push for better treatments, and still honor the people we’ve lost.

So yeah… Melanoma Awareness Month is complicated. It hurts.

But it also reminds me just how much love I carry. And how lucky I was to love someone like James — even if it wasn’t long enough.

Thanks for reading. For remembering. For sitting with me in it.