Griefville Called—I’m Not Renewing My Lease
A Tornado, a Yellow Brick Road, and the Therapy That Helps Me Keep Going
On August 3rd, I hit ten months in this grief journey. Ten months since Greg died on October 3rd, 2025. Ten months since my life split into Before and After. If you’re new here, that’s the headline: I lost my husband, my person, my steady ground. And I’ve been navigating the emotional Tilt‑A‑Whirl ever since.
And honestly? It feels a lot like waking up in Oz.
Not the colorful, whimsical Oz from childhood memories. I mean the real Oz—the one Dorothy actually experiences. The one she’s dropped into without warning, without consent, without a map. The one where she opens the door and realizes her entire world has changed, and nothing looks like home anymore.
That’s grief. A tornado hits, and suddenly you’re somewhere you never asked to be.
The Tornado That Dropped Me Here
Dorothy didn’t choose the storm.
She didn’t schedule it.
She didn’t prepare for it.
It just came barreling through her life, ripping everything familiar out of place.
That’s what losing Greg felt like.
One minute I was living in Kansas—metaphorically speaking—where life was predictable, grounded, and full of the small routines that make a life feel like a life. And then the tornado hit, and I woke up in a place I didn’t recognize. A place with strange emotional weather, unpredictable triggers, and a version of myself I didn’t know how to navigate.
“Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Welcome to Griefville.
Population: me.
Against my will.
The Yellow Brick Road: The Grief Path No One Wants
Dorothy steps onto the Yellow Brick Road because she has to.
She doesn’t know how long it will be.
She doesn’t know what she’ll face.
She doesn’t know who she’ll become along the way.
That’s grief.
You don’t get a map.
You don’t get a timeline.
You don’t get instructions.
You just start walking because staying in the rubble isn’t an option.
But here’s the part people forget:
Dorothy didn’t walk that road alone.
She needed the Scarecrow when she didn’t know which direction to go.
She needed the Tin Man when her heart felt too heavy to carry.
She needed the Lion when she didn’t feel brave enough to take another step.
That’s therapy.
It’s the companion who helps you keep moving when the road feels too long, too confusing, too exhausting. It’s the person who says, “Let’s figure out the next step together,” when you’re staring at the path and can’t make yourself take it.
Not Everyone Walks the Yellow Brick Road the Same Way
There’s something I need to say, because grief IS NOT one‑size‑fits‑all. There are two kinds of people in the world—or maybe two kinds of resilience.
Some people are natural fighters.
They get knocked down, and even if they cry while doing it, they stand back up. They keep walking. They keep pushing. They keep inching forward on the Yellow Brick Road even when the flying monkeys are circling overhead.
The above description is me.
Not because I’m stronger or better—but because somewhere along the way, long before grief ever found me, I learned coping mechanisms that taught me how to keep moving.
I learned how to function in chaos.
I learned how to push through fear.
I learned how to get back up even when I didn’t want to.
Those skills didn’t come from widowhood—they came from life. And maybe a few late‑night college years of questionable decision‑making, cheap rum, and still showing up at 8 a.m. for work or class as if nothing happened. Turns out, resilience wears a hangover pretty well.
And that same scrappy, get‑back‑up grit is exactly what carried me into therapy when the tornado hit. Because even fighters need a place to land. I did about three months of professional counseling early on, and it helped me steady myself when the tornado first dropped me in Oz. It gave me structure, perspective, and a place to unload the emotional noise without overwhelming the people I love.
But I realized something important:
Journaling became my true therapy.
It was the thing that helped me untangle the chaos in my head.
It was the place where I could say the things I wasn’t ready to say out loud.
It was where I found
clarity,
honesty,
and the version of myself
that still knew how to fight.
Therapy helped me get started—journaling helped me keep going.
Journaling is my daily anchor now. I’m not in therapy at the moment, but I’m absolutely open to returning whenever I need it. Therapy isn’t a one‑and‑done thing—it’s a resource you reach for when life gets heavy.
And I know journaling isn’t the answer for everyone.
Some people open a notebook, stare at the blank page, and immediately need a snack, a nap, or a personality transplant. That is okay! Grief doesn’t hand out matching toolkits. Some people heal through art, or music, or long walks, or talking things out with someone who gets it. Some people find comfort in spaces like the private Facebook group I host, where you can vent, spiral, laugh, cry, and dovetail off someone else’s story. We all reach for different things when the world tilts.
But not everyone grows up with those same tools. Not everyone learns resilience early. Not everyone is taught how to regulate emotions, or self‑soothe, or push forward when everything feels impossible.
And that doesn’t mean their grief is “harder.” It just means their toolbox looks different.
For some people, the tornado hits and they’re standing in Oz without the internal scaffolding they need to navigate it. They’re not weak—they’re unprepared. They’re trying to walk a road they were never taught how to walk.
And for those people, telling them to “suck it up” or “stop having a pity party” isn’t helpful—it’s harmful. It’s like yelling at Dorothy to run faster when she’s still trying to figure out how to read the map.
But here’s the truth I’ve learned in ten months of grief:
There does come a point where you have to stop giving in to every single urge to crawl back into bed. Not because you’re failing if you do—but because you deserve more than a life lived entirely in the rubble.
And if you can’t pull yourself along the Yellow Brick Road—if your legs feel too heavy, if your courage feels too thin, if your heart feels too cracked—that’s when you need companions.
Real ones. Professional ones. The Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion rolled into one.
Therapy isn’t for the weak.
It’s for the weary.
It’s for the ones who didn’t grow up with the emotional tools they needed.
It’s for the ones who’ve been walking too long without help.
It’s for the ones who need someone to say, “You don’t have to do this alone.”
And let’s be honest—there’s still a stigma around therapy, especially for men.
Somewhere along the way, “getting help” got twisted into “being weak.”
But the truth? It takes more courage to sit in that chair and face your own pain than it does to pretend you’re fine.
That’s not weakness—that’s bravery in its rawest form. It’s the Lion finally realizing courage doesn’t mean never being afraid; it means showing up anyway.
Some people fight by instinct.
Some people fight by support.
Both kinds are fighters.
And both kinds deserve to find their way home.
The Real Culprit: Why We Get Stuck in Griefville
Sometimes we stay stuck in Griefville because we’re trapped inside our own echo chamber.
Same thoughts.
Same fears.
Same grief playlist on repeat.
It’s like wandering the same patch of the Yellow Brick Road over and over, convinced we’re making progress when we’re actually walking in circles.
Dorothy didn’t get stuck because she was weak—she got stuck because she didn’t know where to go next.
That’s us.
We keep handing our emotional spaghetti to people who love us but are also exhausted, overwhelmed, and not trained to untangle it.
Friends and family mean well, but they’re like munchkins pointing in every direction at once—supportive, but not exactly equipped to guide you through flying monkeys and existential dread.
That’s where therapy comes in.
Not as a last resort.
Not as a sign of failure.
Not as “I can’t do this.”
Therapy is Glinda showing up and saying,
“Here’s the path.
Here’s the truth.
Here’s how you keep going.”
It’s the companion who helps you break the loop when you’re stuck replaying the same emotional day. It’s the person who helps you see the parts of yourself you didn’t know were there—the clarity of the Scarecrow, the heart of the Tin Man, the courage of the Lion.
And if you find yourself pitching a tent in Griefville, hosting a three‑day pity festival, or waking up in the same emotional Oz over and over—that’s not weakness. That’s a sign you might need a guide.
Therapy isn’t the Wizard—all smoke and promises.
It’s the real magic: clarity, compassion, courage.
And sometimes it’s the thing that helps you take the step you couldn’t take alone.
The Companions: Parts of Myself I Met Along the Way
Dorothy meets the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion—each missing something essential.
But the truth is, they’re not random characters. They’re pieces of her. Parts she has to strengthen to survive the journey.
Grief does the same thing.
Scarecrow = Clarity and Direction
The part of me that feels lost, unsure, second‑guessing every decision.
Tin Man = Emotional Openness
The part of me that feels too cracked open, too vulnerable, too raw.
Lion = Courage
The part of me that has to keep going even when I don’t feel brave at all.
Grief forces you
to meet these parts
of yourself
whether you want to
or not.
And eventually, you realize they were inside you the whole time—you just didn’t know you’d need them this much.
The Wizard: The False Fix We All Look For
Dorothy goes to the Wizard expecting rescue, answers, a shortcut home. Instead, she gets smoke, mirrors, and a man who can’t actually fix anything.
“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!”
That’s the part of grief where you realize:
No one can save you.
No one can carry you out.
No one can do the emotional work for you.
People can love you, support you, sit with you, walk beside you—but the healing?
That’s yours.
And that’s why therapy matters.
Not because someone else fixes you, but because they help you see the parts of yourself you didn’t know were there.
My therapist helped me realize that writing has always been and continues to be my superpower for coping with grief.
No Place Like Home…Except When Home Isn’t Home Anymore
Dorothy clicks her heels and whispers, “There’s no place like home,” and for her, it’s true. She wakes up surrounded by the people she loves, in the place where she feels safe, grounded, known.
But grief rewrites that line.
Because I still live in the house Greg and I built together—the house where we raised our kids, celebrated holidays, argued over paint colors, laughed in the kitchen, and built a life brick by brick. It’s the house that should feel like home.
But when I walk through the door now, it doesn’t feel like home. Not in the way it used to. Not in the way Dorothy meant.
Because home isn’t walls or furniture or the familiar creak in the hallway. Home is a person. And my person isn’t there.
And now, with Avery moving back to her college campus next week, I’m mentally preparing myself for a new kind of quiet—the kind that doesn’t just settle in the corners but fills the entire house. The kind that echoes. The kind that feels like standing in the middle of Oz with no companions beside you.
The silence is
SO LOUD
sometimes it feels
like it has weight.
And this is where the metaphor sharpens:
Dorothy’s homecoming is joyful.
Mine is complicated.
I walk into a house full of memories, but not full of Greg.
I walk into a space we built together, but I walk in alone.
I walk into a place that used to feel like safety, but now feels like a reminder.
And that’s why “no place like home” hits differently in grief. Because sometimes home is the place that hurts the most.
But here’s the part that matters:
Just like Dorothy, I’m learning that home isn’t a location—it’s a feeling I’m rebuilding.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
Brick by emotional brick.
And maybe one day, the After version of home will feel like home again. Not because it looks the same, but because I’ll feel like myself again inside it.
Screw the Wicked Witch
Somewhere along this Yellow Brick Road, I realized something important:
Grief has its own Wicked Witch.
She’s the one who whispers that you’re too tired to keep going.
She’s the one who tells you to crawl back into bed.
She’s the one who convinces you that you’re stuck, that you’re failing, that you’re not strong enough to walk this road.
She’s the voice that feeds the pity party.
But honestly?
Screw the Wicked Witch.
She doesn’t get to run the show.
She doesn’t get to decide your pace.
She doesn’t get to keep you trapped in Griefville.
She doesn’t get to convince you that you can’t rebuild a life without your person.
Every time you get up, every time you journal, every time you take one more step down the Yellow Brick Road—that’s you throwing water on her.
That’s you reclaiming your power.
That’s you choosing courage over fear.
And somewhere in that process—quietly, subtly, almost without noticing—you get this tiny, triumphant moment where your soul whispers:
“Ding‑Dong! The Witch Is Dead.”
Not because grief disappears,
but because the part of grief
that kept you stuck
finally loses its grip.
The Wicked Witch only wins if you stop walking.
And you’re not stopping.
The Ruby Slippers: The Power I Had All Along
Glinda tells Dorothy the truth:
“You’ve always had the power.”
Dorothy didn’t know she could leave.
She didn’t know she wasn’t trapped.
She didn’t know she wasn’t stuck in Oz forever.
That’s the grief breakthrough.
The moment you realize:
You don't have to remain stuck in the cycle. You don't have to reside in Griefville. You don't have to keep reliving the same emotional patterns.
You can choose differently.
You can step forward.
You can go home—not to the old life, but to a new one.
The ruby slippers are your boundaries, your therapy, your resilience, your willingness to keep going.
You had them the whole time.
The Exit Strategy: Clicking My Heels
Breaking the lease on Griefville isn’t as simple as dropping off the keys and saying,
“Thanks for the trauma, see you never.”
It’s more like clicking your heels together and whispering, “I’m ready to go home now.”
Not home to the Before.
Home to the After.
Home to the new version of me.
And honestly? I can almost hear Greg saying, “Hey, Jen! I don’t want you stuck pitching a tent in the wasteland.” That’s where the whole Suck‑It‑Up‑Buttercup spirit comes in. Remember how I wrote about that a few entries back? It’s that tough‑love nudge that says, “Come on, babe…you can do this.”
Eventually, Griefville starts to look less like a permanent address and more like a place you passed through.
A place you survived.
A place you learned from.
A place you don’t have to live in anymore.
Because grief doesn’t disappear—it just stops being your mailing address. It becomes something you carry, not somewhere you reside. It softens, shifts, changes shape, but it never fully leaves.
And that’s okay.
You can honor it without unpacking your bags there.
You can feel it without renewing the lease.
You can keep walking your Yellow Brick Road...
knowing the storm is part of your story, but not the place you’re destined to stay.
A Note from Jen
Ten months in, I’ve learned something important: those of us who are a little further down the Yellow Brick Road have a responsibility to the ones still in the thick of it. The ones whose grief is fresh and sharp and disorienting. The ones who can’t yet imagine feeling anything other than shattered.
I want them to know it does get better.
Not perfect.
Not painless.
But better.
Each wave of us—whether we’re at month two, month ten, or year three—has the chance to show that our resilience, our honesty, our willingness to keep going might be the thing that helps someone else not sink deeper into their own grief marathon.
We don’t have to be experts.
We just have to be real.
And present.
And willing to say, “I’ve been where you are. And you won’t stay there forever.”
That’s how we move out of Griefville.
That’s how we find our way home.
And that’s how we help someone else find the road out, too.
Comments