13 Weeks Without Jason
November 16, 2025.
13 weeks. 3 months tomorrow, without Jason. 91 days of waking up without the best thing in my world. Grief is not linear, or a process that comes to completion. It’s not something that as time passes disappears. I grieve Jason daily and that grief and feeling of loss hasn’t gotten smaller as time goes on. Just like in the same way I fell in love with Jason every single day that I was privileged enough to know him. Grief looks like holding it together in a social setting only to get back in the car the weep the entire drive home. It’s using all the energy in my system to do daily tasks. Listening to my body and realizing activities that were healthy and fulfilling to me before I lost Jason may no longer serve me. It’s listening to the words people say but don’t really mean. Culturally how often we use “how are you” and “hope you’re doing well” as greetings with little desire to really know the answer. I’m working really hard to set boundaries and not let the “yuck” and outside noise steal my already limited energy. I’m less afraid of crying in public and embrace the tears as they come. I no longer am apologizing for feeling what I’m feeling, because my whole god damn world has fallen apart and I’m allowed to feel this range of emotions, wanting to be seen and heard and tell my story, Jason’s story. I wear less make up because I’m constantly wiping my eyes and don’t need mascara down my face. I’m getting better at realizing it’s not up to me to make people feel comfortable with my uncomfortable situation. For them it’s an uncomfortable moment, but for me it’s my life. I’m learning to accept it when people tell me I’m strong and I’m brave, even though I hate those words, because I don’t feel like I have a choice in any of this. But the truth is I am strong and I am brave, because I get up every single day in a world where the love of my life is gone. I’m living one of the worst things someone can experience. I hate being told “I understand how you feel.” It lacks empathy and a desire to connect and listen. Unless you held the hand of your husband as he took his last breaths after watching cancer rapidly consume him, all at 31 years old, you don’t understand. I don’t need anyone to pretend they understand. I’d rather be told that your heart aches because you loved Jason (and me) and you can’t imagine how mine must feel. To be seen and heard while feeling immense grief is powerful.
91 days. It feels like an eternity but also like yesterday. It sucks every single day that Jason is not here, but he isn’t coming back, no matter how many times I say this isn’t fair or I can’t believe this is real. Though, still, I can’t believe this is real. I never imagined this would be my life. People say “you’re living my worst nightmare” and honestly, two years ago, freshly engaged, it never even crossed my mind that life could get this bad. Yet I’m here. I smile, I laugh, I cry. Because the world doesn’t stop and there really is no other choice than to keep going.
