The Story:
I found a video on my old laptop today. It was dated three years ago—just a random Tuesday night. In the video, I was laughing at something you said. I was holding a glass of wine, my head thrown back, my eyes crinkled at the corners. I looked so light. So unburdened.
I sat there in the dark, watching that stranger on the screen, and I realized the hardest truth of all: I miss who I was before you died.
That woman in the video didn’t know what a hospital waiting room at 3 AM looked like. She didn’t know the sound of a heart monitor stopping. She existed before grief touched my life, before she knew the weight of a silence that never ends.
People keep telling me that I’m doing better. They see me go to work, they see me smile at jokes, and they think I’ve “moved on.” But they don’t see the internal shift. They don’t see that every happy moment came with a bit of sadness now.
When I got promoted last week, my first instinct was to call you. And then, a split second later, the crushing reality hit me again. That joy was instantly tainted by your absence. It was a harsh lesson in how fragile life can be.
I closed the laptop and wiped my face. I miss the version of me who stood in this world when you were still here. The one who made plans five years in advance without fear. The one who didn’t look at her life as a before and an after.
I know I have to keep going. I know I have to survive. I am still here.. I am still living..
But as I looked at that video one last time, I said goodbye to two people. I said goodbye to you, and I said goodbye to the woman I used to be. Because grief doesn’t just break your heart, it changes your entire world. And some days, I mourn my old life just as much as I mourn
