Today marks 10 years of homeownership for me, a full decade since we bought this little foreclosure and turned it into a home. Typically, an anniversary like this would feel purely exciting or nostalgic. But if you’ve ever navigated grief, you know that big milestones come with layers.

This post isn’t just about celebrating a homeownership anniversary.

It’s about how grief changes every milestone, even the ones that should feel joyful.

The Day That Was Supposed to Feel Happy… But Didn’t

When we bought this house ten years ago, life looked completely different. My husband, James, and I were renovating side by side, dreaming up the family and future we were building within these walls. We had no idea what was coming.

After losing James to metastatic melanoma, this house became something else.

A reminder. A refuge. A trigger. A timeline all on its own.

And that’s the part people don’t talk about enough:

✨ Grief doesn’t stay in the past. It follows you into every holiday, every celebration, every “should-be-happy” moment, even your homeownership anniversary.

How Grief Changes Your Relationship With Home

Homes hold memories, and mine holds an entire lifetime:

• The days we spent tearing out floors
• The late-night renovation planning
• The laughter
• The stress
• The dreams we were building
• And the life we never got to fully live together

When you lose the person you built your life with, even the good milestones are cast in shadow. It’s not because you’re ungrateful; it’s because the person who should be here to celebrate with you is missing.

I’m proud of everything this house has been for me and my son.

But I’d be lying if I said today didn’t also sting.

Holding Pride and Pain at the Same Time

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned in my widowhood journey is that two things can be true:

✨ I’m grateful for this house.

✨ I’m still grieving the life we imagined inside it.

That is the reality of healing after loss.

It’s not linear, and it doesn’t follow a neat timeline. Even when you’ve rebuilt so much of your life, certain anniversaries will always hit differently.

This House Became the Story of My After

In the ten years I’ve lived here, this house has held:

• My strongest memories of James
• The early days of becoming a foster and adoptive mom
• Nights when grief swallowed the room
• The slow rebuilding of my identity
• New routines, new dreams, new chapters
• And the woman I’m becoming now

This home has seen every version of me: the wife, the widow, the mom, the renovator, the survivor, the one still learning how to move forward.

If You’re Grieving Through a Milestone Too

I want you to know this:

You’re not doing it wrong.

You’re not ungrateful.

You’re not “stuck.”

You’re simply human.

Grief doesn’t ruin milestones. It reshapes them.

It teaches us to feel everything fully, even when feelings contradict each other. It reminds us that love doesn’t end just because life has changed.

Ten Years Later

So yes… today is the 10th anniversary of owning my home.

And yes… It’s both beautiful and heavy.

I’m celebrating what I’ve survived.

I’m honoring the life that was.

This house holds it all: the joy, the loss, the rebuilding, the growth. And maybe that’s the real story of homeownership that no one talks about:

It’s not just about owning a home.

It’s about everything life hands you inside it.

As a widow, I can’t help but laugh at the comment sections of women rebuilding their lives after losing their husbands. The comments are brutal. She’s moving on too quickly, or she’s stuck in the past. She’s selling the marital home too soon or staying there too long. She’s too sad or not sad enough. Honestly, as widows, we can’t do anything right in the eyes of the internet.

But here’s the thing: I’m willing to bet that 99% of the people in those comment sections have never had to make sense of the explosion that is losing a spouse. They haven’t had to wake up in a silent house, stare at a stack of bills, and wonder how they will survive this new version of life alone. They haven’t had to make every decision on their own, or worse, had someone swoop in and promise to take care of everything, only to leave them even more broken.

I’ve Seen the Worst, and I’m Still Here

When you’ve walked through the depths of grief, when you’ve buried a piece of your heart and kept going anyway, fear starts to lose its grip. The little things that used to send you into a spiral just don’t hit the same anymore. I’m talking about widowhood here, but this goes for anyone who’s faced real, soul-crushing chaos – losing a child, going through a nasty divorce, clawing your way out of a financial crisis. When you’ve stood on the edge of the abyss and screamed into the void, not a lot scares you anymore. Maybe Walmart on a Saturday afternoon, but that’s about it.

Why I’m Unbothered by the Little Things

I used to worry about the dumbest things – what people thought of me, whether my house was spotless, or if I was doing everything right as a mom. But grief has a way of resetting your priorities. It teaches you that fear is a luxury for people who haven’t been broken. It makes you fearless in the most chaotic, beautifully unhinged way.

These days, I don’t stress over the little stuff. I let my kid have way too much screen time because, honestly, it keeps us both sane. I stopped worrying about being the perfect mom a long time ago. I bought an entire house to flip because I had faith it would all work out – and it did. I take risks now that would have terrified me a few years ago because I know that as long as I’m still here, I’ll find a way through.

Turning Fear into Fuel

That fearless energy has spilled into every part of my life. I’ll start a project without knowing how it will turn out. I’ll take on challenges because I know that even if it goes sideways, I’ll figure it out. Once you’ve lived through the worst days of your life, you realize you can handle whatever comes next. Fear isn’t a barrier anymore – it’s just a reminder that I’ve survived bigger things.

If You’ve Survived Walmart, You’ve Survived It All

And let’s be real, 10 years in retail will toughen you up too. I’ve seen grown adults throw tantrums over price mismatches. I’ve been cussed out because the store didn’t have the right kind of avocado. I’ve felt my soul leave my body in the fluorescent hell of a Walmart break room. Working retail during the holidays? That’ll test your will to live. When you’ve been through that and then gone on to lose the love of your life, fear just feels like another Tuesday.

Embracing the Chaos

I’m not fearless because I’m brave. I’m fearless because I’ve been broken, burned, and rebuilt. Because I’ve been to hell and back and adjusted Satan’s thermostat. I’m still here, and that’s what makes me dangerous. Fear no longer controls me because I’ve already seen the worst and survived.

If you’ve been through hell and back and still show up for yourself every day, you’re my kind of person. Let’s connect.

 Hey there, Besties! 🌟

Today, I'm diving deep into an incredibly personal and universally human topic: the intricate dance between love and grief. As I scrolled through the archives of our journey together on "On the Creek," I noticed something that tugged at my heartstrings. A post from a significant moment in my life – my first Valentine's Day without James – stood out as one of your favorites.

Isn't it a peculiar thought? The idea that grief, in all its shadowy depths, is something that each of us will encounter, yet in such different ways. It's a bitter truth that the essence of grief is as universal as love itself. And it's this very universality that binds us, isn't it?

On my journey through widowhood, I've come to realize that grief and love are two sides of the same coin. To love deeply is a risk that invites profound grief when that love is lost. But would we ever choose to forego love to spare ourselves the pain of grief? For someone like me, who loves with all her heart, avoiding love is not an option, even when the price is a deep, aching loss.

But here's the thing, my dearest friends: it's okay to love, it's okay to grieve, and it's perfectly okay to let them coexist. Grieving doesn't mean we're stuck in the past, just as loving doesn't mean we're oblivious to pain. It's about embracing the full spectrum of human emotion and allowing ourselves to feel deeply, in all its shades and nuances.

I'm learning, day by day, that life is the grandest of all DIY projects. It's messy and unpredictable, and sometimes, the instructions seem like they're written in another language. But it's also beautiful, rich with lessons and opportunities to grow, learn, and love again.

So, as I navigate this path of widowhood, crafting a life that's full of both memories and dreams, I'm holding on to the belief that it's okay to be optimistic about the future, even with a heart that's familiar with loss. Because, at the end of the day, life isn't black and white – it's a kaleidoscope of colors, each shade representing a part of our story, a lesson learned, or a love cherished.

Remember, Besties, we're all students in this grand, messy workshop called 'Earth School.' Every experience, every tear, and every smile is a chapter in our book, a stroke of paint on our canvas. And it's up to us to embrace it all, the grief and the love, as we craft our masterpieces.

Until next time, keep shining, keep loving, and keep crafting your beautiful, unique story. 🌍✨🛠️🌱

Hey Besties, A Valentine's Day Unlike Any Other 🌹✨

Valentine's Day at "On the Creek" has always been a special blend of love, laughter, and those little moments that make life so sweet. But this year, the day has a different tone, a quiet echo in a home where laughter once filled every nook.

I had convinced myself I wouldn't share today, thinking, "Haven't we navigated enough grief?" But then, life, with its unexpected ways of weaving love into our days, brought me a surprise. With all the innocence and love a heart can hold, Braxton crafted a Valentine that was a beacon of light in our haze of sadness. "You are a great mom," he wrote, etching into words our shared wish for James to be with us, yet reminding me, "We can still have a good Valentine's Day."

It's in these moments, isn't it, that we find the courage to face the day, to see beyond our loss, and cherish the love that remains?

Our journey through grief is still fresh, a path we're navigating with tender steps. Each day is a delicate dance of holding together and letting go, finding our way through the memories and moments James left imprinted on our hearts.

Valentine's Days past were sprinkled with the joy of impromptu staycations, those sweet, simple times that now feel like treasures from another life. James had this way of making ordinary days extraordinary, and oh, how I miss those surprises, those shared smiles that said, "We're in this beautiful life together."

Peering through the window of social media today, I saw snapshots of happiness, of couples celebrating their love, and I felt a whisper of envy amidst my smile for them. It's a reminder of the complexity of grief—how it intertwines with our joy for others while echoing the void in our hearts.

Yet, in this space, "On the Creek," where we've shared so much of our journey, I find solace in knowing that while the shape of happiness may change, its essence remains. We're learning, day by day, to weave new patterns of joy and love into the fabric of our lives. The path forward is uncharted, marked by the certainty that while nothing will ever be quite the same, the potential for new beginnings, for moments of unexpected happiness, is always there, waiting just around the bend.

So, here's to the love that endures, to the strength we find in each other, and to the hope that whispers softly, promising that even amid change, our hearts can find a way to sing again. 🕊️💖

Until we meet again on these pages, keep holding onto love, besties. It's our bridge over the waters of grief, leading us toward tomorrow's sunshine.