There are moments that split your life into two parts—before and after. For me, one of those moments was the day Dale, my 2nd husband, passed away, 16 years ago.

It’s strange how the world keeps spinning when yours comes to a halt. The sun rises, traffic hums outside, someone is making coffee, a neighbor walks their dog—and yet, something in your world has ended. The person you loved more than anything, your night and day, is gone.

I was so in love with him. Not in the giddy, surface-level way people sometimes talk about love—but in the deep, soul-binding kind of way. Dale was woven into everything: our routines, our plans, our quiet evenings, even the way I moved through the world. He wasn’t just part of my life—he was the axis it turned on.

That day—the day—I felt a stillness that didn’t feel peaceful. It felt hollow. Like the sound of a house after the door closes behind someone who won’t return. Grief settled over me like fog, thick and disorienting. I couldn’t see a path forward. I didn’t want one without him.

I’ve come to understand something since then—something I didn’t want to accept at first. No matter how deeply you love someone, no matter how tightly you hold on, you can’t change the outcome. Life moves in ways we can’t control. Death doesn’t ask for permission. And love, no matter how powerful, can’t rewrite the story once it’s written.

But love can echo. It can fill the space someone leaves behind with warmth, even if it takes a while to feel it. It can show up in memories, in laughter that catches you off guard, in the way you still whisper their name when no one is around. Dale is still here—in the deepest parts of who I am. In every lesson he taught me without trying, in every quiet comfort we shared, in every moment I find myself wishing he could see how far I’ve come.

I wouldn’t trade a second of our time together, even knowing how it ended. Loving him taught me how boundless a heart can be—and losing him taught me how resilient it has to become.

Some days, the ache is still sharp. Other days, it’s softer—more like a shadow that walks beside me. But through it all, I carry the love we shared. And maybe that’s the only outcome that really matters.

Who have you lost? How did it make you feel? How did you recover?

Eydie