When Grief Sits With You

Year two hit hard.

People talk about the first year after you lose someone, but they don’t mention the second. That second year? It’s quiet and cruel. The calls slow down. Folks assume you’re fine. But you’re not.

I was doing everything I could to keep the business alive — his business — while carrying my own grief. And let me tell you, some people were hoping we’d fold. They didn’t just sit on the sidelines; they pushed for it. Tried to speed up the fall.

Between all that mess and what I was dealing with inside, I was running on empty. Couldn’t sleep through the night — waking up every couple hours, tired but wired, thoughts racing.

Every morning around 7, I’d feel like I couldn’t breathe. So I’d head outside to my bamboo egg chairs — I call them the queen chairs. I’d toss a blanket over them like a tent, trying to block out the sun and block out the world.

That’s where I finally got a little rest — from about 7 to 10. And every single day, I’d peek through the blanket and see the same little hummingbird sitting on the tiniest branch you ever saw. It looked too small to hold anything, but it held her. And she held me.

She didn’t come and go. She waited. If I got up, she’d leave. But if I stepped outside again — there she was, like clockwork.

Then one day, this other bird started showing up — a sharp-looking thing with a steel gray top and a black bottom. Looked like he had on a tux. He never stayed long, just posted up by the fence like he was watching over something.

July rolled into September. Still no sleep, still heavy in my chest every morning.

And then it was September 22 — our wedding anniversary.

That morning, all three birds showed up. The hummingbird. The tux bird. And out of nowhere, a red cardinal swooped by like it was delivering a message.

First the hummingbird flew off. Then Mr. Tux. But before he left, he did this thing — paused mid-air and gave me what looked like a little nod.

And just like that, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: peace. Not total healing. Not closure. Just peace.

Four years later, I can say I’m standing stronger. I still miss him. I always will. That doesn’t change. But now I can breathe. I can move through my days without that heavy weight on my chest.

Grief doesn’t go away. That’s the truth. It just settles in a little differently.
And you learn to live again — if you choose to.

I did.

— YaYa