Running in Circles With Grief: Untangling Love, Loss, and the House That Won’t Let You Off the Wheel
Updated: Jun 13
The Big Talk vs. The Backyard Jungle
Grief didn’t hit me like a poetic wave or a somber literary weight. It put me on a wheel—right here in the house Greg and I built—and spun me around until I was dizzy enough to vomit. No one tells you that the hardest part of loss is the sheer amount of cardio it demands. It keeps you looping through the same rooms, tracking the same dust bunnies, and colliding with the echoes of a life you weren’t ready to retire.
When Greg and I made the monumental decision to move from Southern Illinois to Marshall back in 2001, we didn’t just jump in. We rented an apartment for a year first to test the waters, which is exactly the kind of cautious spreadsheet behavior Greg excelled at. Then we found this house. After five minutes inside these walls, we knew: this was our forever home.
For nearly twenty-five years, it kept that promise. It became the backdrop where our kids grew up, a sanctuary for family memories, and a masterclass in endless DIY. But a house doesn’t become a home on its own. It became a home because Greg poured his blood, sweat, and probably a few swear words into it. And now, every corner feels like a trap door pulling me back onto the grief journey hamster wheel.
A House Built on Love and Handiwork
Everywhere I turn, I see Greg’s handiwork. He spent years turning this place into a safe harbor—scraping wallpaper, knocking down walls, building decks, and installing trim. If I dreamed up some impossible project, he’d roll his eyes, go to the garage, and make it real.
But the part of the yard that hits me the hardest is the grill station.
I look out the sliding-glass door and see it exactly as he left it. There's the Blackstone and the side table he custom-built because “store-bought ones wobble.” He installed hooks for his spatulas and tongs as if he were curating a high-stakes museum of Grilling Tools That Actually Matter. And, of course, the fan he mounted high on the pergola so he could “keep his cool while creating culinary masterpieces.”
I can still see him out there in his summer uniform: those falling-apart Crocs, a cut-off white t-shirt, and either khaki cargo shorts or swim trunks, depending on how badly the pool filters were annoying him that day. He’d shuffle around the deck like a Michelin-star chef who was also running an aquatic maintenance shift—one hand on his hip, the other flipping a steak with a level of confidence that bordered on aggressive.
He was a magician out there, turning out the perfect salmon filet like it was nothing. Sometimes he’d glance through the glass, give me that signature smirk, and say, “You’re not ready for how good this is going to be.” He was right every time.
Now the grill sits under a cover. The tools hang silent. The fan waits. And those stupid, beloved Crocs aren't shuffling anywhere.
Then there’s the lawn—Greg’s absolute pride and joy. Years ago, we bought the empty lot next door so no one could build too close, meaning we inherited a massive yard. Most sane people would see that as a sentence to hard labor. Greg saw it as a spiritual calling. He treated that grass like a golf course he personally owned and operated.
I know for a fact I am NOT keeping it perfectly manicured. I spent weeks trying to carry on his legacy, leaving behind lines so crooked they looked like a field sobriety test. I can practically hear him laughing from the other side:
“Jen, what is happening out there?”
But the universe decided my sentimental attempt at landscaping had gone on long enough. While my friend’s grandson was recently navigating the lot, a wheel snapped completely off the riding mower deck. Come to find out, Greg had already custom-soldered that exact wheel back on who knows how many times over the years. Apparently, his MacGyver welding job finally met its match. Message received, universe. I have officially surrendered the throne and hired a professional crew to keep the jungle at bay. It’s a bittersweet reality check—writing a check to a stranger to maintain Greg's pride and joy—but if I can’t laugh at the sheer, expensive absurdity of a ghost-welded mower wheel flying off into the weeds, I’m not sure how else I’m supposed to survive it.
The Hamster Wheel and the Thousand Bricks
Managing a house of this size on my own doesn't feel like a beautiful journey of resilience. It feels like running a marathon in combat boots. It’s a relentless, un-cute hamster wheel that doesn’t care if I’m tired, crying, or accidentally causing a bizarre copper chemical reaction that leaves my pool glowing bright green for forty-eight hours. No one warns you that widowhood involves playing a very expensive game of trial-and-error with pool chemicals just to keep the backyard from looking like an abandoned water park. Some days you find your momentum; other days, you're just a woman staring blankly at a neon green lagoon, wondering how this became your life.
Some days I’m just moving because stopping would mean letting something collapse. I go through the motions, checking boxes, keeping the house and my sanity barely upright. Other days, I’m looping through the same emotional terrain I swear I already survived—like grief has its own glitchy GPS that keeps rerouting me back to the same damn place. I have projects I want to tackle, goals I want to reach, dreams I can almost see.
But the second I sit down to start, a kind of paralysis settles in.
Some days the weight lifts and I catch a flicker of momentum; other days it feels like someone quietly stacked a thousand bricks on my chest while I wasn’t looking.
There’s a moment in grief when you realize you’re not just stuck because of the loss—you’re stuck because moving forward feels like rewriting the entire life you had, like someone handed you the world’s worst group project and then left you to finish it alone. It’s a weird, aching paralysis no one warns you about. Not the poetic kind—the kind where even choosing a new shower curtain feels like a betrayal. It’s not that you don’t want to move; it’s that every step forward feels like updating the operating system of a life you never agreed to run solo.
The Big Talk Meets the Brick Wall
To cope with the exhaustion of playing landlord, repairman, and landscaper all at once, I’ve spent months toy-shopping the idea of selling the house. I map out the logistics of downsizing, look at smaller properties, and convince myself I’m being entirely logical.
I talk a massive talk. I tell people I’m ready. I act like a woman with a plan.
But then the emotional reality check crashes through the mail slot. Walking away from twenty-five years of family history isn't just a real estate transaction. It’s an emotional eviction.
Holding the Anchor for My Children
It’s not just my heart wrapped up in these walls; it’s my children’s, too. They grew up here. This house holds the safety of their childhood, the everyday echoes of their dad, and the foundation of who they are.
I can still picture each of them learning to swim in the pool—tiny arms splashing, their dad standing waist‑deep in the water, calling out encouragement while pretending not to panic.
Over the years, I've watched them navigate in and out of the driveway: initially on unsteady bikes, then in cars as teens with fresh licenses, and later as adults who naturally slow down at the spot where Greg taught them to check their blind spots for neighborhood kids and pets.
I can see Greg in the garage, bent over some project with that familiar mix of focus and stubbornness; I can see him in the yard, sunburned and determined, mowing the lawn like it was a competitive sport. I can see him pulling into the driveway after a long day at work, shoulders dropping the second he saw home.
I can see us cooking together in the kitchen—the easy choreography of two people who knew exactly how to move around each other.
God, I miss him SO much!
When my kids walk through the door now, they aren’t just visiting their mom—they’re stepping back into all of that. Into the echoes of splashing water, the smell of cut grass, the clatter of dinner being made, the sound of their dad’s Jeep pulling in. They’re stepping into the presence of the family we built together, the one that still lives here even though everything has changed.
As a mother, trying to manage my own grief while protecting their sanctuary is a massive burden. The thought of taking away that place of comfort—the place where their memories still breathe—makes leaving feel almost impossible.
Choosing “Me” Throughout the Grief Journey
But alongside that maternal ache, another truth has begun to rise. I love my children fiercely, and I love the history we built here. But at some point, I have to choose me.
And I know that “me” doesn’t want to stay stuck on the hamster wheel forever.
Choosing myself doesn’t erase the past or diminish my love for my family. It means acknowledging that I deserve a life that doesn’t feel like a constant, crushing weight. It means recognizing that my future matters, too—and that I’m allowed to seek a space that brings peace and lightness instead of endless maintenance and heavy bricks.
And once I finally admitted that choosing myself wasn’t selfish but necessary, a new thought crept in—the kind that makes your stomach flip and your eye twitch at the same time. If I’m really going to choose “me,” then I might actually have to… you know… do something about this house.
Which is how I ended up standing in the yard, holding a sign like a woman auditioning for a very unhinged HGTV pilot called “I’m Ready! (Not Really).” Because apparently choosing yourself sometimes looks less like a peaceful epiphany and more like contemplating a “For Sale” sign while wondering if you should lie down in the grass and scream.
The Peace of the Unknown
I’m beginning to understand that until I’m truly ready to make that life‑altering decision, I may stay on this wheel a little longer. And that’s okay. I talk a big talk and think I’m ready to move, but the truth is… I don’t know what I’ll decide.
The paralysis isn’t a lack of willpower. It’s my heart trying to bridge the gap between protecting my family’s comfort, honoring our history, and learning how to choose myself. It’s standing in the doorway of the life I’ve known, looking out at a future I can’t quite see yet, and giving myself permission not to rush.
If you’re a fellow widow or widower standing at a similar crossroads—torn between the people you love and the future you deserve—hear this:
You are not failing.
You’re allowed to talk a big talk just to see how the words feel. You’re allowed to think you’re ready, change your mind, and admit you don’t know yet.
And most importantly,
you’re allowed to eventually
choose you.
Maybe grief doesn’t let you off the wheel. Maybe it just teaches you how to run without losing yourself. Maybe it teaches you that even when the path ahead is foggy, you can still take one small step at a time—trusting that the ground will rise to meet you.
A Grief Journey Note from Jen...
Grief has a way of settling into the quiet places—the corners of your home, the rhythm of your days, the memories that rise without warning. Writing this piece was my way of gently naming the weight I’ve been carrying: the love that still lives here, the exhaustion that comes with holding so much, the guilt that sneaks in, the longing that never fully leaves, and the small, stubborn hope that maybe I’m finding my footing again, one breath at a time.
If you’re reading this because you’ve lost someone too, I want you to feel this in your bones: you are not alone. Not in the tug‑of‑war between holding on and letting go. Not in the moments when you feel brave in the daylight and undone in the dark. Not in the slow, confusing work of learning how to choose yourself while still honoring the people you love.
We’re all walking this strange landscape together—learning, stumbling, softening, and trying again. And if all you managed today was to keep going, in whatever small way you could, that is enough. Truly enough.
Journal Prompts
What part of my home holds the heaviest memories, and what part holds the softest ones?
Where do I feel the most stuck, and what small shift might help me breathe again?
What routines or rituals of “my person” do I miss the most, and what do they reveal about our life together?
If I imagined choosing myself without guilt, what would that choice look like today?
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