So many things can be true at the same time.

I’m dating two men right now. On paper, they couldn’t be more different. One has no kids, travels constantly, and our physical chemistry sparks like firecrackers. He’s exciting, unpredictable, and yes (surprise surprise), emotionally avoidant. The other is the opposite: grounded, steady, with kids of his own and the kind of emotional intelligence that makes me feel seen in a way I hoped might be possible again. I want both. And more. And neither. And nothing. That’s the truth of it. Life after loss is not tidy.

Grief and desire are linked. You cannot have one without the other. The same loss that rips you open to sorrow also rips you open to longing. Missing your person so fiercely makes you crave not only what you had, but for what you still want. What is gone but also all that is new. Grief and desire burn in the same fire. They feed each other.

We live in a culture that loves tidy narratives!!! The widow who mourns deeply, finds closure, moves on with grace, and eventually lands in the arms of the “right” person. The mother who balances her child’s needs perfectly with her own. The professional who chooses a clear path and climbs it steadily.

But real life doesn’t work like that, especially not after loss. Grief tears open the illusion of order, and in the rubble you discover that it’s possible to hold opposites at the same time. To feel lonely and surrounded by love. To crave intimacy and independence. To want more and less, all at once.

Even on a good day, it’s messy and confusing. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s also beautifully human.

The power of BOTH.

I want rainy days where I can sink into my sadness and cry and feel sorry for myself. I want sunny days where I feel the warmth on my face and believe in joy and endless possibilities.

I want romance and intimacy.  I also need time with my son, watching him grow, time with my parents, my friends, and my passions and creativity.

I also crave solitude. I want silence. I want space where I don’t have to be anything to anyone.

Both.  All.  More.  Less.

Splitting time, splitting selves.

There is only so much time, and each choice is a split between work and play, love and loss, stillness and chaos. Sometimes I love all of it. Sometimes I resent all of it. Sometimes I feel like I’m thriving, other times like I’m just surviving.

Contentment doesn’t come from choosing one over the other. It comes from accepting that life is all of it.

To live fully is to hold contradictions and stop demanding they resolve.

Widow’s Fire and the extra layer of existence.

Through the Widow’s Fire Community, I meet people who understand this extra layer of existence. Those who have loved deeply, lost profoundly, and are still here, still living and longing.

We know what it is to want things that clash, to feel joy in the middle of pain, to laugh on the anniversary of a death, to desire touch even when our hearts are raw. We know what it means to live with the both/and of life.

That’s the fire, isn’t it? Not just the spark of desire, but the fire of being alive… contradictory and blazing with too much and not enough at the same time.

Getting comfortable with discomfort.

Life after loss doesn’t hand you a single truth. It hands you a handful of truths. The only way forward is to let them all be real, let them all exist, and let yourself be big enough to hold them.

I want a big, full, messy life. It’s not about choosing the right person, it’s about being able to admit I want all of them and none of them.  I want to touch and explore all of them and I also want all of them to go away. I want to know what I want and also be allowed to have no idea what I want.  I want all and nothing at the exact same time. 

Keep changing your mind.  

In the words of Alan Watts…

“You’re under no obligation to be the same person you were 5 minutes ago.”