One Year

One Year

A prayer

You who I don’t know how to talk to anymore. You whose body comes to me in a dream only to be gone as soon as I say your face, your mouth, your arms, your breasts, your feet. What happens when you die? The broken light switch in the kitchen, the doorknob glistening in the saucer by the window. How can you get in? This solitude, no match for your solitude, which must want to be sung again in the clear strong throats of the living. You who must want to be useful again, now that the two of us can see the myths we made of ourselves. What use is this skin now that you no longer have it? Would you have lived differently, read other books, loved other men, spent more time in the woods, the mountains, the sea? What happens when you die? Teach me to listen so that I might know what you know now.

– Paul Lisicky, The Narrow Door

Tim always thought he was going to die before me. Part of it was our six year age difference, part of it was his family history of heart disease or all the time he spent drinking and smoking, but I think a part of him always knew his timeline was short. This unknown date crept into conversations more than once, even before he knew he was playing roulette with his life.

“I wonder how long we’ll be married,” he’d say on a lazy Sunday morning when we didn’t want to get out of bed.

“Well I’m not planning on ending things anytime soon,” I’d reply.

“Think we’ll hit a 50 year anniversary? Is that even possible?”

I did the math in my head. “You’ll need to make it 82, but that’s absolutely possible.”

Lying next to me, he’d grow quiet. “That’s unlikely.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

Another long pause.

“You’ll find someone better when I die,” he said. “You’ll move on and have an entirely new life.”

I’d jerk up and snap my head over. “That’s not true!” My eyes would peer through him. He felt a million miles away. “If you died, I’d be devastated. I wouldn’t know how to go on.”

As it turns out, we were both correct.


Tomorrow will be one year. When the anniversary of his death comes up, people tell me that they can’t believe it was a year ago… that it seems like just yesterday. To me, that Thursday summer night is so far away. It’s a lifetime ago, but I can still remember each detail. Since then, everything has changed.

On the night that Tim died, I thought and said a lot of strange things. When my friend rushed past the cops in my front yard and into the open door of my shattered home, she walked up to hug me with outstretched arms. As I stood there in my kitchen hugging her with the sound of EMT radio’s bleeping in the background I thought, Man I am so not a hugger. How long should I hold this?

When the crisis counselors sat in my backyard running through their checklist of questions to determine if I was a suicide risk, the practical reality of life on my own started to hit me.

“Does life insurance pay out if someone overdoses from drugs?” I asked after blowing my nose, red and wet from tears.

“Um, I… I am not sure,” the young woman replied. It’s no wonder my house was labeled as a crime scene, with my husband pronounced dead hours earlier and me in the backyard asking about life insurance.


Of all the crazy things I said and did that night, I had one lucid thought as my friend drove me to her house to spend my first night alone: I am never going to be the same. I was not going to make it through this unscathed, and as I sat in the truck with silent tears dribbling down my face – the thought terrified me. I was never going to be the same, and I didn’t know how deep these wounds would burn or the scars they would leave.

What I didn’t expect was that I would like the person I am now more than the person I was before Tim died.

I can’t tell you how many times in the past year I’ve stopped and thought, Man Tim – I’m sorry you didn’t know this version of me. You would have liked her a lot more.

I am a better friend than I was. Touching the cold arm of the person I held more dear than anyone else in the world showed me that we all will expire. I push myself to be more open and available to all the people who have helped me so tremendously. A late night here or an extra glass of wine there might mean I’m a bit groggy going to work the next day, but I haven’t regretted one minute spent with any of my friends.

I am braver than I was before. Nothing I experience for the rest of my life will hurt as much as losing my husband. Nothing. I’ve learned that I’m stronger than I ever realized, and face challenges head on these days. Sure, things could likely end in disaster… but life is not worth living if you don’t try. Am I scared to fail? Yes, but I’m terrified to not try.


Not all the changes are a glowing positive though. I don’t want to let myself be vulnerable when it comes to other people. As the days have passed, I’ve felt my heart hardening. Like turning the crank on an old school pencil sharpener, the point gets sharper and the shavings fall to the ground.

If something is amiss, I think the worst. Terrible news rarely shocks me anymore. I keep half an ear open and ready to hear that someone has passed away. My brain stays in a little bit of a darker place. Some of these aftershocks are tangible. I can’t call 911 – not even for something as simple as reporting a traffic hazard. A few weeks ago my friend and I encountered a mattress on the highway while driving to look at a horse. I held the phone in my trembling hands staring at the numbers before I finally had to tell her to call it in instead. I can still hear my voice squealing into the receiver the last time I called 911. Honestly, there are a lot of sounds from that night that I can’t forget. I do my best not to dwell.

When Tim was alive, I was so many things to so many different people. Wife. Career woman. Daughter. Blogger. Equestrian. Friend. Without realizing what was happening, I floated from one being to the next. In the process, I lost the whole of myself. After he died, my world got shaken up beyond repair. The rules for each role mixed together and flew around me like flakes in a snowglobe. They are starting to settle back down, but the barriers are broken. I am just me now. Parts of each, but never wholly one or the other. I’m flawed and raw and a little bit crazy, but I’m still here.


Mostly I’m still here because knowing and loving Tim was the greatest gift of my life. Nothing else has played a more significant role in making me the person I am today. I keep him with me always. Sometimes it’s sharing a memory of him among friends. They indulge me and listen as I tell the tale. I wonder if they can see the peace on my face when I talk about him. I wonder if they hear the hurt in my voice.

I’ve adapted some of his sayings as my own. When I’m in a pickle, I’ll joke to someone “Oh me, what me do now?” in the silly voice he used to use. I am even tempted to say, “I don’t know. I’m keeping it real,” when someone asks me a question I don’t know the answer to, but then I remember I outlawed that saying our household because he would tell me he was ‘keeping it real’ about ten times a day.

I miss his humor, but I hold on to what I can remember.


We still communicate with each other, Tim and I, although not in the ways I originally thought we might. The dreams have stopped. I haven’t had a real conversation with him since the last time he spoke to me about a week after he died, but he still sends messages. On the night that I set out to go on my first date in ten years, I came home from the barn to get ready only to find my house without power. A transformer had blown on my street – freak accident. Only a handful of houses were affected. As I showered in the dark and tried to fix my hair without a blow dryer I thought, Thanks Tim! And here you were telling me that I should move on after you’re gone!

Weeks later, he showed up in a dream to visit the friend who came to my house on the night that he died.

“Tim! It’s so good to see you! We all miss you,” she said to him as he stood in the doorway.

“Oh? That’s nice,” he said.

“Have you seen Lauren? You should go see her.”

“Meh” he shrugged his shoulders. “Tell her I’m okay.”

As my friend told me about the conversation, I silently sobbed into my phone and rocked myself in the lawn chair on my back porch. Most of you readers won’t recognize him in those words, but I did. And he knew that despite everything, I still worry about him so much. I don’t ugly cry much these days, but it happened after I heard that message.


When someone asks me how I am, I find that they typically want one of three answers.

  • Most want to know that I’m fine. They care about me, and want to see me functioning normally with situations they can relate to. Me being okay makes a life a bit easier for them.
  • Some want me to still be grieving the loved one they lost. I should typically be sad, and always pining for him. Life should not be better without him.
  • The rarest of all want to know the truth.

And the truth? The truth is messy.

In the past year, I have felt both carefree by life on my own and burdened by the task of forever memorializing my husband. I have felt the twinge of excitement at the start of something new, and despair at the thought of no one ever loving me as completely as Tim did. I have been happier than I was ever before. I have been sadder than I ever thought I could be.

I tread water in an ocean that I don’t know how to navigate.


A few weeks ago, I rounded up some friends to go to something unique – a David Bowie Tribute Burlesque show at a small club. It was the kind of “Keep Austin Weird” event Tim would have found and drug me to years ago. Towards the end of the show, I stepped outside. Through the doors behind me, I could hear Bowie’s last single “Lazarus” play through the loud speakers. The vibrations from the bass came up through my feet as I leaned against the entrance to the building. It started to rain, and the droplets tickled the edges of my arms as I squeezed up against the wall for shelter. I thought about my friends inside.

The childhood friend who knew the Lauren before Tim, and knows the wildness I feel now isn’t exactly a new sensation for me. The barn friends who watched me slink around last summer, a wordless shell of my former self that took months to slowly re-awaken. The co-worker that has only known me as his fellow married friend – who worries about me and doesn’t know how to offer support.  The new friends who never even met my husband, but join me for happy hours and brunch where we verbalize our interpersonal frustrations. As I watched lightning pop over the empty coffee shop across the street, I wondered if those people knew how much I loved them.

Bolts flashed across the sky ahead of me, and I thought about Tim. I would not be here without you. I would not be the person I am without you. We still reach out to each other across the ether. I struggled to find the right words to thank him, but the feeling is beyond vernacular so I just watched the lightning.

I watched the lightning, and I thought about him.

40 thoughts on “One Year

  1. Of all the things you have written, I cried the hardest reading this one.
    “Meh… tell her I’m ok.”

  2. I admire your honesty and eloquence in allowing us all a glimpse into you and your feelings this last year. You are quite possibly the bravest and strongest person around. It takes great fortitude to allow others to see you vulnerable and at your low points. I hope you know that you are an inspiration to others.

  3. Oh goodness Lauren, this is such a beautiful and honest post. Thank you for being so bold as to share some of your most intimate moments throughout this journey.

  4. Those pics of Tim and BT are gorgeous. You must be glad you have them. Lauren, your writing is so powerful. You are able to communicate the beautiful and the ugly in such a human way.

    Thank you for sharing your journey with us. The person you were, the person you are and the person you are becoming is a gift to the world.

  5. Hi Lauren,

    I’ve followed you for a while now, but never really know what to say. I just wanted to let you know I’m here and to say that you write beautifully. You always give me a case of the feels 🙂 Hugs to you from Michigan!

  6. For the record, I love when something reminds you of a Tim story and you share. I feel like I know him better now than I did when he was alive, and I wish I’d been able to know him a little better. The stories are a good reminder that he was real, and he lived, and it meant something. For me at least.

  7. You are an amazing and courageous writer. The depth our honesty was just beautiful, which probably sounds like a silly word given the topic of the post. My heart hurt for your heart’s hurt, and then smiled as you spoke about the personal growth you’ve experienced. Sending hugs and love your way.

  8. another blog i read, her husband died yesterday from cancer. sometimes I just cant deal with the fact that’s not fair.

    is that enchanted rock? that’s where my husband proposed.

  9. “Am I scared to fail? Yes, but I’m terrified to not try.” you might not want to be called in inspiration, and you might not feel like one. idk. but you inspire me.

  10. For all the time we’ve been internet friends, and despite the fact that we’ve only met once, this year I’ve begrudged the physical distance between us. I’m not always good at remembering to reach out, and I can be a selfish person a lot of the time, but I truly treasure our friendship… however we can get it. For some reason, your blogs about Tim over the last year have really touched me. It’s difficult for me to explain exactly how, and often I’ve found I can’t write a comment because I can’t verbalize what I’m feeling.

    I guess I say all of that to thank you for continuing to blog, and for continuing to be a friend from very far away <3

  11. Quite honestly, I read these posts and can only marvel at how strong and brave you are. You talk about walking that line between memorializing him and starting anew and from what I can tell you have done and are doing that so very well.
    Living 7 hours away from my family makes me feel very removed from events that happen there. My aunt passed away at the beginning of April and that was the last time I was over there. I go back next week and as I was arranging for a family dinner, I realized that Kathy wouldn’t be there, and I started crying again. Your words today caused me to take a deep breath and be strong again.
    I continue praying for you and sending good vibes. One day I’ll get to visit Austin – sounds like a lovely place!

  12. Lauren, I love how open and honest you are about all of this. Beautifully written. Bryan and I use to have the same conversation. And even though he’s still alive, I have heard that he is still struggling-and struggling deeply. I know it’s only a matter of time before I get that phone call. It’s hard, and it changes you completely. My first attempt at a real relationship since I left him ended terribly not too long ago. It made me wonder if I’d ever be recovered, ever to be able to love the same again, if I was permanently damaged in some way. Because, like you said, while in a lot of ways I really like who I have become more, there’s some things that are permanently changed. It’s not exactly the same, because I know what you experienced was an intensified version of what I’ve experienced, but I know how hard it was for me, so I can only imagine how hard it was/is for you. And I have to say, you’re handling it about as gracefully as I think anyone could. Also, I know by sharing your experiences and feelings truthfully you’re helping so many other people who are going through the same things. We all love you!

  13. You’re so wonderful. Thanks for sharing your life and journey, I’m glad to be a part. Much love from me, every day but especially this one.

  14. Lauren, you are such a wonderful person, and a huge inspiration to so many. Thank you so much for sharing your life, even the hardest parts of it. You’re such a strong person, and I am amazed at how well you’ve handled this and with such grace. As always, sending a ton of internet hugs and a lot of love.

  15. I’m in awe that you not only find the words in your grief, healing and navigating but the most gorgeous well written words. I can literally feel like I see the lighting and hear the music….and my heart is rooting for yours

  16. Love it as always. You put loss and the transformation after into such amazing words. Thank you for putting emotions to words which many of us cannot.

  17. As a blog reader it feels like just yesterday. Lots of love to you! It has been amazing to see you blog through this experiance. I don’t think I would have the strength to do so.

  18. As always, another beautiful, well written piece Lauren.

    Things change with time. My life changed 2.5 years ago. In some ways similar to yours, only without the difinitive ending to some aspects of it.

    The sun still rises and still sets. We keep breathing in and breathing out. We move forward one step at a time and eventually we all get to where we are going.

  19. Lauren, I know this is an old blog/post, so I hope your ‘healing’ is still growing. I just now found it, at a time when I needed to hear/understand these things. My Mom-and best (girl) friend passed away 4 months ago. I actually felt like I ‘coped’ better just after it happened. I didn’t expect to be struggling quite so much with it still…I didn’t know. What’s “normal”? Who knows?
    I imagine it must be difficult at times for you–still–since people maybe post these comments…does it –or is it still like ‘salt to an old wound’ still? I hope not–if so, I am sorry. I really just wanted to say “thanks”…it feels like you are “there for me”….and understand *me* when you talk about how (paraphrase) “no one else *knew* you”…like he did.
    This is exactly the trouble I am having. Mom and I had depressions, and etc’s. that we shared SO intimately about..saved one another at times….who else could ever understand all that?!? Who else could…ever ….forgive?….like *she* would? Who else will ever *get me*…like she did? I am missing much! It makes me feel fearful….that is hard to ‘reckon’.
    Your blog has helped me *understand*–it’s so much more of a ‘process’…..not a ‘linear’ thing.
    I feel ? relieved somehow…like I had been holding my breath, and didn’t know it. Understand?
    You–AND Tim–have HELPED ME….
    I’m sure he’s up there proud of you…I know my Mom is, too. You’ve been a very brave lady…and she loved that about people. She was more brave than she ever knew….
    Thank you for strong-arming your own pain enough to post these…(reading most of morning..ignoring work)’s helping me. God Bless you.

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