It’s been a year since he passed, and the grief still lingers like a shadow I can’t quite shake. My husband was my partner, my confidante, and my best friend, even if our marriage wasn’t perfect. His absence is a gaping hole in my life, one I’m still struggling to fill. Some days, I wake up expecting to hear his voice, to feel the familiar warmth of his presence beside me, but the cold reality hits me again and again—I’m alone now. And the weight of that truth presses down on me in ways I never imagined possible.

My children, whom I love dearly, have their own lives far away. They live abroad, chasing dreams, careers, and families of their own. I’m happy for them—proud, really. But there’s a part of me that wishes they were closer, that I could see their faces without the screen of a video call, that I could hug them when the loneliness becomes too much to bear. They check in when they can, but it’s not the same. I’m grateful for the moments we share, but when the call ends, the silence of the house seems louder than ever.

My role as a school teacher has been both a blessing and a challenge. The children I teach are bright and full of life; their energy keeps me going, and their smiles offer small rays of light in an otherwise dark world. But at the end of the day, when I return home, the emptiness waits for me. The laughter and chaos of the classroom fade, replaced by a quiet that I can’t escape. I pour myself into my work, grading papers late into the night just to keep my mind busy, to distract myself from the fact that my life feels like it’s standing still.

I try to keep up appearances, to be strong for everyone around me. But there are moments when the façade crumbles, and I find myself breaking down in the solitude of my bedroom, where no one can see. I miss having someone to talk to at the end of the day, someone who knows me inside and out, someone who doesn’t need explanations or reassurances. I miss the comfort of another presence in the house, the small rituals of shared life that I took for granted when he was still here.

There’s a deep sense of being unmoored, like I’ve been set adrift in a sea with no destination in sight. My husband’s death didn’t just take him away; it took away the sense of a future we had planned together, leaving me with fragments of memories and a heavy heart. I try to move forward, to carve out a new sense of purpose, but every step feels like trudging through quicksand, and I don’t know if I’m getting anywhere.

Friends tell me it will get better, that time heals, but time seems to be moving so slowly. I want to believe that I’ll find my way, that the ache will fade, that I’ll rediscover who I am without him. But for now, I’m just trying to make it through each day, one step at a time, holding onto the hope that eventually, the sun will break through the clouds and light the way forward.

Until then, I’ll keep teaching, keep smiling for my students, keep finding small joys where I can. I know I have to keep going, even if it’s hard. I owe it to myself, and to the life I had, to keep living—even if I don’t yet know what that looks like on my own.