Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 51

When the person you love is grieving

When someone you love is grieving and all you can offer is “I hear you” and “I love you,” it can feel painfully hollow. I want to be the fixer, the pleaser, the one who finds the magic wand that makes everything all better.

I think back to childhood, when my mother could kiss a scraped knee, place a band‑aid over the sting, and suddenly the world felt safe again. Why can’t I have that same magic for someone who is hurting now?

But the person I’m thinking of didn’t fall and skin her knee. Her pain comes from a lifetime of disappointments she believed she had already faced and moved beyond. The truth is, our past never disappears. It follows us, and sometimes it taps us on the shoulder with memories that reopen old wounds and stir fresh grief.

Today I listened to an Anderson Cooper podcast featuring a mother whose two sons died by suicide. She spoke with heartbreaking clarity: she will always be their mother, and she accepts that her sons made choices driven by internal pain that love and counseling could not erase. She chooses to believe they are at peace, even as she grieves their absence. She celebrates their lives while acknowledging that grief is the price of having loved deeply. We must learn to let grief work through us rather than destroy what remains.

As I listened, I thought about my own losses — how often I’ve pushed away sadness, convinced myself I’m fine, and tried to stay strong for others. And then I look at this person I care about, someone carrying more loss than anyone should have to bear, and I realize grief demands a response. Ignoring it doesn’t heal the wound; it infects it.

When my brother died, when Rich died, no one covered my pain with a comforting hand or a simple band‑aid. I hid my hurt, trying to lighten the burden for everyone else. Now I see that my own scraped knee has been quietly festering, and I’m still unsure how to soothe it.

So today, I’m letting myself feel it. I’m grieving in the way I know how: through journaling, through sharing my thoughts. Sometimes the words I write carry a quiet plea for help, understanding, or connection. When someone recognizes that and offers support, it strengthens me. But I don’t expect anyone to rescue me or make everything “all better.”

I have to make my own emotional choices — crying, screaming, laughing, sitting in silence, or anything in between. It’s my responsibility to tend to my own wounds, to place the band‑aid gently, and to trust that healing begins with acknowledging the hurt.

Please join me on my journey.

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