The beginning of the end

Tonight marks a year since we were in Raleigh, getting ready for your hip ablation. I think back to that night and realize how unaware I was of what was about to unfold. I had no idea that moment would be the beginning of the end.

I’m feeling deeply emotional tonight—maybe it’s just the weight of this whole month. April carries so much with it now. Tomorrow, the 8th, was supposed to be a day of hope—a step toward relieving your pain. In some ways, it did. But in others, it led to the days and weeks that followed… and nothing has been the same since.

It doesn’t seem real that a year has passed. Grief is so heavy, so relentless. People say the pain means you loved deeply, and I know that’s true. But all the quotes and comforting words don’t touch the ache that lives in the silence, in the spaces you used to fill.

I try to be okay. I really do. And some days, I manage better than others. But most days feel like something essential is missing—like a part of me is gone. I lean into God, I press into His promises, and He does bring comfort. But the absence of you—of us—still overwhelms me.

How do you move forward when the other half of your heart isn’t here anymore? Right now, the only answer I have is to take it one day at a time, one step at a time. Just doing the best I can with what I have left… until the day I see you again in heaven.

Sometimes I wonder if I placed you where only God should have been. You were such a reflection of His love for me—so good, so steady, so full of wisdom and gentleness. Maybe I held on too tightly to the gift, and not enough to the Giver.

Since moving into this new house, today is the first day I’ve really felt this lost again. I try to keep a routine, check off the tasks, go through the motions. But in the quiet… the stillness… I feel it all. I miss you so much.

You were the greatest gift, and I want to hold on to every memory, every smile, every word, every moment. I want to somehow capture it all—preserve it—so that nothing ever fades.

You’re always with me, even though you feel so far away. I see you in the kids, in the way they honor and miss you. I feel you in the prayers you once prayed, in the love you gave, in the man you were.

I love you so much, Michael. Forever and always. 

Until we meet again.