When my husband passed, it felt like the world stopped. The emptiness I experienced was unlike anything I had ever known. People told me that time would heal, but I couldn’t see past the overwhelming grief. I was lost. But, as strange as it may sound, it was whiskey that helped me find my way back.

I wasn’t a whiskey drinker before, but there was a bottle in our cabinet—one he had saved for a special occasion. One evening, I poured myself a glass, hoping to feel close to him. As I sipped, I found comfort not in the alcohol itself, but in the complexity of the flavors. I began to wonder about the story behind the bottle. How was it made? Who created it?

This curiosity led me down a path I hadn’t expected. I started reading about whiskey—its origins, its traditions, its craftsmanship. I discovered a world of artistry and history that I had never paid attention to before. Each bottle represented years of dedication, knowledge, and passion. The more I learned, the more I realized that whiskey wasn’t just a drink; it was a way of life for those who crafted it.

I immersed myself in this new hobby. I visited distilleries, attended whiskey tastings, and even joined a whiskey club. What began as a small act to feel connected to my husband turned into something that brought me peace. It gave me a purpose again, something to look forward to. Whiskey became my escape, but not in the way most people think. It wasn’t about forgetting—it was about discovering.

Whiskey didn’t heal my heart overnight, but it gave me a new focus, a way to slowly rebuild my life. In the end, it was whiskey that helped me heal.