Ten years.
I’ve been wrestling with those words.
Ten years feels like such a long time. And somehow, it also doesn’t feel that long ago.
There are pieces of that day and the days that followed that I don’t remember. The first few hours are mostly a blur. But there are moments that have stayed with me.
I remember friends showing up.
I remember sitting on a hill on a white blanket with people who didn’t try to fix anything. They just sat with me. They were present.
I remember waking up at 2 a.m. that first night so angry. I went outside and screamed.
And I remember a friend bringing me chicken salad sandwiches to the funeral home after we met with the funeral director to plan Dustin’s funeral.
Chicken salad sandwiches.
It’s strange what your mind holds onto when your entire world has just fallen apart.
I don’t remember every conversation or every person who walked through the door. But I remember a white blanket. I remember screaming into the darkness. I remember someone making sure I had something to eat on a day when I was planning my husband’s funeral.
And now somehow, ten years have passed.
Ten Years Is a Long Time
Ten years of raising children.
Ten years of birthdays and holidays.
Ten years of decisions I thought we would make together.
Ten years of watching our children grow and wishing he could see who they are becoming.
Ten years of learning how to do life without the person I chose to do life with.
There has been so much life in those ten years.
And there has been so much good.
I know that.
People remind me of it, too.
They tell me I’m strong.
They tell me they’re amazed by what I’ve done.
They look at Dustin’s Place and the children and families who have been supported and talk about all of the good that has come from something so devastating.
And there is good.
So much good.
I am incredibly proud of Dustin’s Place. I am grateful for the life I have. I laugh – a lot. I experience joy. I love deeply. I have incredible people around me. I get to watch something beautiful happen every day as grieving children and families discover they aren’t alone.
I am good.
And this is still hard.
Both of those things can be true.
I Don’t Always Have to Be Okay
That’s something I’m still learning ten years later.
I spend a lot of my life giving other people permission to grieve.
I tell grieving children that whatever they’re feeling is okay.
I remind parents that there is no timeline.
I tell people grief doesn’t have to look a certain way.
I encourage people to give themselves grace on the hard days.
And yet, I rarely give that same grace to myself.
Somewhere along the way, being “strong” became something I got very good at.
There are things to do. Children to raise. An organization to lead. Families who need support. People who look to me for answers. A life that has continued moving forward.
So I keep moving, too.
But reaching ten years has made me realize that maybe I don’t always have to.
Maybe I can let the walls down.
Maybe I can say this sucks.
Maybe I can acknowledge that there is still a void in my heart without immediately following it with something positive.
Maybe I don’t have to turn every painful part of my story into purpose.
Maybe sometimes I can just miss my husband.
Good Doesn’t Cancel Out Hard
I think that’s what I want people to understand most.
There is a tendency to look at someone’s life after loss and measure how well they’re doing by everything that has happened since.
Look how strong she is.
Look what she built.
Look how much good came from it.
And I understand why people say those things. They are said with love.
But the good doesn’t erase the loss.
Dustin’s Place doesn’t make Dustin’s death okay.
The thousands of moments of connection, hope, laughter, and healing that have happened because of this organization don’t mean I wouldn’t trade it all to have him here.
I would.
I would have chosen the life where we raised our children together.
I would have chosen the arguments about stupid things and the ordinary evenings and figuring out schedules and sitting beside each other at our children’s milestones.
I would have chosen growing old with the person I chose to do life with.
That choice was taken away from me.
What happened afterward was a different choice.
I chose to keep living.
I chose to love.
I chose to build.
I chose to take something I never wanted and make sure other grieving children and families didn’t have to feel alone in it.
I am proud of what has grown from that choice.
But purpose doesn’t make the loss worth it.
And I think I need to give myself permission to say that.
Ten Years Later
I recorded this video while wrestling with what ten years means to me.
There isn’t a neat lesson at the end of ten years.
That’s probably the most honest thing I can say.
I’m good.
And sometimes I’m not.
I’m strong.
And sometimes I don’t want to have to be.
I have a beautiful life.
And there is a void in it.
I have found purpose.
And I still wish the reason behind that purpose had never happened.
I can spend my days helping other people understand their grief and still struggle to make room for my own.
Ten years hasn’t changed the fact that I am a grieving person.
And maybe I’ve needed to say that out loud.
Not Executive Director Viki.
Not the founder of Dustin’s Place.
Not the person who knows what to say about grief.
Not the strong widow.
Just me.
A woman who ten years ago lost the person she chose to do life with and raise children with.
A woman who has built a life she is grateful for.
A woman who still misses her husband.
A woman who is allowed to be okay and not okay, sometimes in the very same moment.
I give grace to grieving people every single day.
Ten years later, maybe it’s time I give a little of that grace to myself.
Because grief isn’t a problem I was supposed to solve.
It is part of my story because Dustin is part of my story.
And ten years later, he still is.