Surviving the After
Leo and I were not subtle.
We were loud. We laughed hard. We danced in the kitchen. We had inside jokes that made zero sense to anyone else. He was steady in a way I didn’t even realize I depended on until the steadiness disappeared. I used to say he was my support system. Turns out he was also my armor.
We met in a way that felt ordinary at the time — and now feels fated. The kind of story where you think, “Oh. That was it. That was the hinge point.” We built a life that we loved. It was both predictable and unpredictable in the best ways. A rhythm that was ours.
Then came the diagnosis.
Ninety-nine days from “You have cancer” to goodbye. Ninety-nine days of medical terms I didn’t ask to learn and watching the strongest man I know shrink in ways that felt impossible. When he took his last breath he was in my arms. Just like we planned. It was beautiful and peaceful and my soul broke into pieces all at once.
After he died, time got weird. I started writing because my body felt like it was buzzing and I didn’t know where to put it. I chose roughly 30, 60, and 90 days because those are numbers people recognize. Benchmarks. Like maybe grief would shift on schedule.
Spoiler: it does not.
These entries were written exactly when they say they were. No hindsight. No polish. Just me trying to figure out what the hell was happening to my nervous system. Sharing them feels… exposing. But if grief is this strange for me, I can’t be the only one.
Day 28
It’s been 28 days since Leo died.
I remember the 99 days from diagnosis to goodbye in high definition. Every word. Every hallway. Every machine. But the last few days? Static. Like my brain hit record and erase at the same time. I was there. I know I was. But it feels like I was hovering a few feet above myself, watching it happen to someone else.
Time makes no sense. It feels like years have passed. It also feels like I should be able to text him.
No one talks about how much admin work death requires. Calls. Forms. “We’re so sorry for your loss” followed immediately by “We’ll need a certified copy.” Changing names. Canceling accounts. Proving I exist. Proving he doesn’t. The world wants paperwork before it allows collapse. It’s exhausting.
If I sit still too long, panic rises in my chest like it might split me open. So I stay busy. Productive. Efficient. Gold-star widow.
Cleaning out his clothes didn’t wreck me like I thought it would. I boxed them up and donated them like I was organizing a closet, not dismantling a life.
But picking up his ashes? I sat in the parking lot gripping the steering wheel because I couldn’t make my body move.
Mail with his name still feels normal.
Mail without it feels wrong.
He hasn’t visited me in dreams. Apparently, he’s made appearances for others. That feels mildly offensive. Or maybe I’m just not ready.
Even the dog seems fine. Which somehow feels like betrayal.
Grief is layered. Petty. Loud. Silent.
I’m learning to let it be what it is.
Day 57
Fifty-seven days without him.
The self-soothing voice is loud. “Have a drink.” “Buy the thing.” “Eat the cake.” Especially around Christmas. Grief loves twinkle lights and nostalgia. I hear it now. I pause. I don’t always win, but I notice. That feels like progress.
The car has become my grief room. Not gentle tears — I’m talking full-body, can’t-breathe, mascara-is-a-lie sobbing. If you’ve ever pulled up next to me mid-meltdown, I promise I’m not in danger. The Hyundai is just holding space.
And yes. The toothbrush incident.
For 24 hours I was convinced Leo was sending me a message through blinking lights that only appeared when I looked at it. A sign. A signal. Proof of beyond-the-grave Wi-Fi.
It was on the charger backwards.
I was devastated. The toothbrush was thriving.
I stare into nothing a lot now. Mid-sentence. Mid-email. Just gone. Grief is physical in a way no one explains. For weeks, even thinking the words “he died” made my blood run cold, like someone opened a freezer in my chest.
It’s awful. It’s disorienting. It’s occasionally absurd.
Still here though.
Still standing.
Zero out of ten.
Day 90
Day 90.
I didn’t know my body could cry like this. Four hours straight once. I checked.
I didn’t know I would feel him everywhere — in the kitchen, in the quiet, in the split second before I fall asleep.
I didn’t know his face would flash into my mind while I’m making decisions, like he still gets a vote.
I didn’t know songs could ambush me in the cereal aisle.
I didn’t know I would trace his face in photos with my fingers like muscle memory could bridge the distance.
I didn’t know grief could get worse before it gets… different.
I also didn’t know I would still laugh. Big, unmistakable Darra laughs. Grief didn’t replace joy. It just moved in beside it. They coexist. It’s uncomfortable.
Mostly, I didn’t know love this deep would leave an absence this vast.
Day 90.
Still missing him.
Still loving him.
Still figuring out how to live in the after.
And yes —
It still sucks.
I didn’t decide to “be a grief writer.” I started writing because I was vibrating.
Because my chest felt like it held a burning sun and a nest of thorns at the same time. Because I was functioning and furious about it. Because I needed somewhere to say, “This is insane,” without someone trying to fix it.
Writing has helped me see that nothing about this is linear. I can sob in a parking lot and laugh at a dumb joke in the same afternoon. I can feel strong and completely untethered in the same hour. Getting it on paper keeps me from gaslighting myself about what this actually feels like.
Sharing it is harder.
Part of me wants to clutch this grief close because it feels like the last thing that is only mine and Leo’s. But every time someone says, “I thought I was crazy for feeling that,” I feel less alone. And if there’s one thing grief does well, it’s isolation.
Will I keep writing? Yes. Not because I think it will wrap this up neatly. Not because I’m chasing healing in a performative way.
I’ll keep writing because this is how I’m surviving the after.
Grief still sucks.
But writing it down makes it suck slightly less alone.