If you’re reading this and you’re newly grieving, I’m so sorry you’re here. The early days after a loss can feel unreal—physically, emotionally, and mentally—and it’s common to feel like you have to “manage” on your own. I want to share with you, what helped me most in those first weeks after my husband died, including the kind of support I reached for, the practical things people did for me, and the reminder that healing often comes one wave at a time.
On the day my husband Tom took his life, the first person I called was my nephew. He’s 34 years old and a pastor. A year earlier, his own father-in-law had taken his life. Jeff made calls to the rest of the family for me, and then he drove up—about 500 miles—early the next morning.
That first night, I was alone. I told my neighbors I was fine and needed to be alone. Wrong. I ended up calling the chaplain’s 24-hour hotline, worried about whether to call 911 for myself. I couldn’t stop shaking. My legs kept kicking, my head was pounding, and I was crying so hard I felt like I couldn’t get a full breath. The wonderful woman explained what was happening to me physically—how my body was reacting to stress. She talked with me from 11:00 p.m. until 2:30 a.m. I finally calmed down. She told me I didn’t have to sleep, but I had to rest. I never really slept much that first night, but I did calm down and rest.
I don’t even remember Jeff arriving the next morning—there are a lot of memory gaps in those first few weeks—but I clearly remember us sitting on the deck and him talking to me. I listened so carefully because I knew he had been through this situation before, and because I knew he loved me very much.
He told me something that has stayed with me:
“You are a strong person, but you cannot do this on your own. You have to accept help from your family and friends. We’re all here for you. Don’t tell them you’re fine; you’re not. This is going to take a while.”
The first time I laughed that day was when he gently asked, “I mean nothing by this—just asking. Have you showered?” I told him I had showered that morning. He said that right now, all anyone can ask of you is to eat, drink, and sleep. If you shower, that’s a bonus. No one can expect anything more, including you.
He told me that grief is like walking into the ocean. In the beginning, every wave is huge and will take you down. Eventually, smaller waves will hit you, and you’ll stumble through them. Then another huge wave may come out of nowhere and knock you down again, but you will get back up. You will not drown.
He urged me to seek grief counseling. He also offered to take me to my doctor to talk about medication. He cooked my meals, and he offered to do anything, including cleaning my house. He sat in the living room and read while I talked with Tom’s sister in the kitchen. He wanted to give us space, but he also made sure I knew he was there if I needed him. He truly was my perfect first angel: calm, loving, and someone who understood exactly how I was feeling.
About a week and a half later, I saw a grief counselor for the first time. She urged me to call my doctor as soon as possible about medication. I went home, made the call, and saw my doctor that afternoon. He prescribed anti-anxiety medication for a short period of time, to help me breathe, sleep, and calm down.
Family and friends visited over the next few weeks. Some stayed for three days, and one stayed for ten. I don’t know how I would have made it without them. They overlapped, so as one person left, another would arrive. I needed company, but I also needed peace, and having someone there one at a time was perfect for me.
I’m also incredibly fortunate to have a couple next door that I’m very close to. They were here “that day,” and they remained steady in their support for me afterward. In the beginning, we had a simple routine: once I was up, I opened the garage door. She would appear in her robe with her coffee within minutes. We would sit on the deck, just drinking coffee and chatting for a little while. I ate dinner at their house many times. Sometimes one of them would simply bring me a plate of food. She even drove me to counseling, because I couldn’t possibly drive. I had no focus at all.
It’s been just shy of six months now. Of course, I’m still not “okay,” but I’ve realized I am going to survive this. In the beginning, I couldn’t even function. Everything was difficult. I clearly remember having to purposely breathe. I would get dizzy and realize I had stopped breathing. The first 10 pounds fell off, then another 7 over time, but my weight has stabilized. I will survive.
If you’re reading this and you’re new to loss, I want to say something clearly: accept the help that’s offered. This is too huge to get through alone—at least it was/is for me. Whether it’s a chaplain, a doctor, a counselor, your religious leader, or just family, friends, and neighbors, let them help. The people who care about you genuinely want to help, and even if they can’t fix the situation, their support matters. For some people, helping looks like cooking you a meal, sitting with you, running an errand, or simply answering the phone.
If you’re struggling right now, you don’t have to carry everything by yourself. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine. Tell people the truth: you need help, and it’s going to take time. And it will be okay to take it one wave at a time.
