I don’t know if this qualifies as dull, but I’m about to put my husband into long-term care. He has advanced dementia, and the man I’ve lived beside for 30 years no longer knows my name. He looks at me like I’m a kind stranger, not the woman who shared his life. It’s surreal and heartbreaking. I’ve been his caregiver, his memory, his voice—but now I have to let go. Not because I want to, but because I can’t do it alone anymore. And that truth is heavier than I ever imagined. I feel like I’m losing him twice.
At the same time, I’m saying goodbye to our farm. The place we built together, where seasons passed like chapters in a book we wrote side by side. Every fence post, every tree, every quiet morning coffee on the porch—it’s all soaked in memory. Letting go of the land feels like letting go of a part of myself. I never thought I’d leave it behind. But life doesn’t ask for permission when it changes. It just shifts, and you either follow or fall. Right now, I’m trying to follow, even though the path ahead feels blurry.
For the first time in my life, I don’t see my future clearly. I’ve always been a planner, a doer, someone who knew what came next. But now? I wake up and feel like I’m floating in fog. The roles I’ve held—wife, farmer, caregiver—are slipping through my fingers. I’m not sure who I’ll be when this chapter closes. And that uncertainty is terrifying. I wish for dullness. I crave it. A quiet day with no decisions, no heartbreak, no change. Just stillness. That would be a gift.
I know I’m not alone, but it feels lonely. Watching someone you love disappear in front of you is a grief that doesn’t get enough words. It’s not dramatic—it’s slow, relentless, and deeply personal. I’ve cried in the laundry room, screamed into pillows, and smiled through conversations I didn’t feel. I’ve learned to carry sorrow in silence. But today, I needed to say it out loud. To admit that I’m tired. That I’m scared. That I need a little light in this dark stretch of road.
If anyone has extra hugs, I’ll take them. I don’t need advice or solutions—just warmth. Just a reminder that I’m still here, still human, still worthy of comfort. I’m doing my best to stay strong, to honor the love we shared, even as it fades. I’ll keep showing up, keep making the hard choices, keep walking forward. But I won’t pretend it’s easy. And I won’t pretend I’m okay. Not today. Today, I just need to be held—if not in arms, then in understanding.
So here’s to the ones navigating invisible grief. To the caregivers, the quiet warriors, the people saying goodbye in slow motion. You’re seen. You’re loved. And you’re not alone. I’m walking this road too, one step at a time, with tears in my eyes and hope in my pocket. Dullness may not be possible, but grace might be. And for now, I’ll hold on to that.
