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Don’t Call Me a Wid0w – Part 14

My name is Karen, and I am a widow

Migraines and Widowhood

I’ve lived with migraines since my college days, having my first attack at 19. Back then, doctors believed they were triggered by an overactive thyroid. Over the years I went through thyroid surgery, swung between hyper- and hypothyroid, and saw more neurologists and pain specialists than I can count. Eventually the diagnosis shifted to mixed‑symptom migraines—fueled by stress, tension, and the way my body holds itself.

I’ve spent decades in and out of therapy, OT, and PT, weaving many of those tools into my daily routine. And still, when the pain hits, it slows me down. Even after fifty-plus years, it scares me.

When Rich was alive, he couldn’t take the pain away, but his presence helped me breathe through the worst of it. Just knowing he was nearby softened the edges. Now, when the migraines come—as they did yesterday and through the night—I face them alone. I kept repeating my mantra, this too shall pass, until I finally crawled out of bed around 5:30 a.m., hooked up my TENS unit, and took an Imitrex. Two hours later, the fog began to lift.

Today I’m choosing to move more slowly. I rescheduled an appointment so I could give myself the space I clearly need.

Stress is a strange companion. Sometimes we can feel its electric charge running through us; other times it hides until our bodies reveal it for us. When I mentioned to one of my sons that stress was attacking my nervous system, he asked, “What are you stressed about?” My first instinct was to say nothing. But the truth is everything—even when I think I’m handling it. Stress accumulates quietly, and for those of us who live with chronic conditions, it can cloud our mood, our memory, and our sense of stability.

I’ve worked through migraines that left me temporarily blind. I’ve pushed through days when the pain tried to dictate my life. But pushing too hard often leads to relapse, which is why today I’m choosing to be proactive instead of stubborn.

Being a widow—a word I still wish had a gentler sound—means reminding myself daily that I can do hard things. Rich taught me that. From the beginning, he pushed me to trust my own resilience. When I asked him a question, he’d nudge me to find the answer myself, even when I desperately wanted him to just fix the problem. He knew I needed to build confidence, not dependency. That loving guidance still echoes in me.

So, this morning, as I sat in my rocker with my TENS unit humming, coffee in hand, and a Housewives show playing in the background, I felt the tension slowly releasing. But I also sensed that doing too much too soon would backfire. Since I am the one responsible for my own well‑being now, giving myself a day of reduced responsibility isn’t indulgent—it’s necessary. Today, I am my own client, and I’m prescribing rest.

Chronic pain and grief are intertwined. Unresolved grief creates biological stress, and in my body that stress shows up as migraines and neuropathy. I’m learning to recognize this connection and to build new tools that make life gentler and less painful.

If you notice shifts in your mood or behavior, pause. Check in with yourself. Trace the discomfort back to its source. Become your own detective. Together, we can learn to reduce the stress that fuels our pain.

Please join me on my journey

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Being a Widow – Part 14

Migraines and Widowhood

I’ve lived with migraines since my college days, having my first attack at 19. Back then, doctors believed they were triggered by an overactive thyroid. Over the years I went through thyroid surgery, swung between hyper- and hypothyroid, and saw more neurologists and pain specialists than I can count. Eventually the diagnosis shifted to mixed‑symptom migraines—fueled by stress, tension, and the way my body holds itself.

I’ve spent decades in and out of therapy, OT, and PT, weaving many of those tools into my daily routine. And still, when the pain hits, it slows me down. Even after fifty-plus years, it scares me.

When Rich was alive, he couldn’t take the pain away, but his presence helped me breathe through the worst of it. Just knowing he was nearby softened the edges. Now, when the migraines come—as they did yesterday and through the night—I face them alone. I kept repeating my mantra, this too shall pass, until I finally crawled out of bed around 5:30 a.m., hooked up my TENS unit, and took an Imitrex. Two hours later, the fog began to lift.

Today I’m choosing to move more slowly. I rescheduled an appointment so I could give myself the space I clearly need.

Stress is a strange companion. Sometimes we can feel its electric charge running through us; other times it hides until our bodies reveal it for us. When I mentioned to one of my sons that stress was attacking my nervous system, he asked, “What are you stressed about?” My first instinct was to say nothing. But the truth is everything—even when I think I’m handling it. Stress accumulates quietly, and for those of us who live with chronic conditions, it can cloud our mood, our memory, and our sense of stability.

I’ve worked through migraines that left me temporarily blind. I’ve pushed through days when the pain tried to dictate my life. But pushing too hard often leads to relapse, which is why today I’m choosing to be proactive instead of stubborn.

Being a widow—a word I still wish had a gentler sound—means reminding myself daily that I can do hard things. Rich taught me that. From the beginning, he pushed me to trust my own resilience. When I asked him a question, he’d nudge me to find the answer myself, even when I desperately wanted him to just fix the problem. He knew I needed to build confidence, not dependency. That loving guidance still echoes in me.

So, this morning, as I sat in my rocker with my TENS unit humming, coffee in hand, and a Housewives show playing in the background, I felt the tension slowly releasing. But I also sensed that doing too much too soon would backfire. Since I am the one responsible for my own well‑being now, giving myself a day of reduced responsibility isn’t indulgent—it’s necessary. Today, I am my own client, and I’m prescribing rest.

Chronic pain and grief are intertwined. Unresolved grief creates biological stress, and in my body that stress shows up as migraines and neuropathy. I’m learning to recognize this connection and to build new tools that make life gentler and less painful.

If you notice shifts in your mood or behavior, pause. Check in with yourself. Trace the discomfort back to its source. Become your own detective. Together, we can learn to reduce the stress that fuels our pain.

Please join me on my journey

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Join us as we begin our search for BIG FOOT

While talking to my niece today she mentioned she is searching for her identity.  In the past 5 -6 years much has changed for her, and I understand her asking the question as many of us do, Who Am I.

I have asked myself the same questions for years, but I now know who I am:

I am a survivor, even when I feel myself sliding into depression I choose life and positivity.

I am a mother who is instinctive and intuitive ready to show up for my sons.

I was a wife/partner who loved my husband deeply and continue to.

I am a storyteller, I believe our journey is important to share and learn from, as we write it we see the life we want to live.

I am a life coach and even before my degree and certifications I believed in agency, honesty, boundaries and the growth for myself and others.

I am a woman navigating a new path with courage thanks to the support of and love from parents, siblings, my husband and my children, those that are with me in whether in person or spiritually.

I am a deep thinker, over thinker and learner – I open my heart in loving kindness.

9 March 2026

While talking to my niece today she mentioned she is searching for her identity.  In the past 5 -6 years much has changed for her, and I understand her asking the question as many of us do, Who Am I.

I have asked myself the same questions for years, but I now know who I am:

I am a survivor, even when I feel myself sliding into depression I choose life and positivity.

I am a mother who is instinctive and intuitive ready to show up for my sons.

I was a wife/partner who loved my husband deeply and continue to.

I am a storyteller, I believe our journey is important to share and learn from, as we write it we see the life we want to live.

I am a life coach and even before my degree and certifications I believed in agency, honesty, boundaries and the growth for myself and others.

I am a woman navigating a new path with courage thanks to the support of and love from parents, siblings, my husband and my children, those that are with me in whether in person or spiritually.

I am a deep thinker, over thinker and learner – I open my heart in loving kindness.

Grief doesn’t follow a straight line. It twists, turns, doubles back, and sometimes drops you into places you never imagined. To travel this road, you need to keep your tank filled—rest, nourishment, support—because the journey includes potholes, detours, and dead ends you can’t predict.

Sometimes your internal GPS simply stops working. When that happens, don’t be surprised. Find people who can help you navigate when you can’t see the road yourself.

Some people experience grief as a tidal wave—sobs, tremors, an emotional earthquake that shakes them to their core. Others remain dry‑eyed, numb, or eerily calm. That’s often labeled “shock,” and I believe that’s where I’m living right now.

There is no timetable for grief, no matter how many well‑meaning voices urge us to “move on,” “get over it,” or “let the memories carry us forward.” Moving on—however slowly, however shakily—is part of living. Even in shock, I’m taking steps into tomorrow because I am still here.

For some, the emotional roller coaster is visible to everyone around them. For others, it’s internal and silent. Either way, it’s essential that we don’t judge our own emotions or allow anyone else to judge them. There is no normal. Yesterday I wrote about that very question, and the truth remains: each of us must find our own map.

My path may not look like yours. Your way of facing loss may not resemble mine. We each get to choose the route that feels right for us.

Time can help heal—but only if we participate in the healing. Time alone, without effort or intention, can deepen the hurt and keep us stuck. Accepting help, guidance, and support is part of that effort. I’m not naturally good at asking for help—I’m usually the one who shows up for others—but I’m learning to reach for the hands extended toward me.

Not everyone will be open to hearing your grief story, but sharing it still matters. As your story unfolds, it may offer insight, comfort, or awareness to someone who needs it.

Self‑care is non‑negotiable. Each day I prepare myself—emotionally, physically, spiritually—for what could be, what might be, and what will be. Keeping myself together, inside and out, is one way I honor my loss.

I am my own expert on this new road I’m paving. I carry my memories and the love I shared with my husband, just as I carry the love of family and friends who have gone before him. I find comfort not only in the past but in the new pathways I will discover as I continue to live.

Forty‑two years of marriage is a lifetime. My life continues without Richard in physical form, but he is with me spiritually, woven into every step I take. And today, I’m choosing to take a new step—maybe even one that feels like a dance.