Grief: The Longest Run in Theater History

I remember back in 8th grade, I was in a production of The Devil and Daniel Webster. The whole experience is a bit of a fever dream now—a blur of badly applied stage makeup and itchy costumes. At the time, I thought I was just doing a thing for school. Looking back, I realize I was unknowingly auditioning for the role of a lifetime: The Woman Who Has It All Together.

I wasn’t a very good actress back then. Honestly? I was never built for the stage. I was built for authenticity—for the messy, unscripted parts of life that you can't rehearse. But the universe has a cruel sense of irony, because since October 3rd, I’ve been cast in the most grueling, long-running production in history: "The Widow Who Is Doing Just Fine."

Act I: The Monumental Mundane

My daily schedule has become a series of "scenes" I perform for an audience of one: the general public.

Scene 1: Monday Night Trash Duty. This is the "small" scene that makes me feel ridiculous. It’s just a plastic bin on wheels. But every Monday, it feels like I’m hauling a ten-ton boulder. It wasn’t my job. It was his. Dragging that bin to the road is a silent, sarcastic reminder that I am now the only one responsible for the "heavy lifting" of a life that was supposed to be a team effort. For those of you who get it, you know...

It’s not about the trash—it’s about the vacancy left in the routine.

Scene 2: The Pool. If trash duty is the "small" chore, the pool is the stage set from hell.

On September 21, Greg was out there covering it—it was his space, his project. That was the day he had the massive heart attack that led to his death twelve days later.

Looking back, I realize that covering the pool was his final act of love and service to our family. It was his love language, always. He was a man who spoke in actions—in pool maintenance, in painting deck boards, in ensuring everything was prepped and safe for us. He was setting the stage for our family, even when he didn't know the performance was about to end. Now, looking at that water is like looking at a crime scene, but it's also a monument to him. I used to love peeking out the kitchen window, watching him work, then reward himself by drifting off to sleep on a raft for a couple of hours in the sun.

I’d give anything—truly, anything—

to see him napping and floating

out there again this year.

Instead, I’m left with the reality that it’s the same depth everywhere. There’s no "deep end" to dive into to hide from the thoughts, no place to escape. It’s just flat, shallow, and relentlessly present.

Part of me wants to drop a grenade in the middle and never look at it again, but the other part is still clinging to that joy because it was his final gift.

So, I treat it like a "work in progress." It isn’t ready for swimming yet—I’m tending to his last act of service, all while smiling and striving to keep the water clear.

Act II: The Stage Manager in Activewear

The irony of my "acting career" is that I’m also the Stage Manager. I’m still running the show for everyone else, even when my own script is shredded.

Scene 3: The Administrative Hustle. I’ve become the permanent Stage Manager of my family’s life. I’m working full-time—because I have to, like most everyone. The health insurance is a necessity, and the tuition discount for Avery is a massive, life-altering help that I couldn't walk away from, even on the days I struggle to force myself to get up and go. On top of that, I’ve been navigating the adjustment as my mom has been settling into her new home here in Marshall since the end of March. While I am absolutely thrilled to have her moving closer to me—it's a joy to know she's nearby—the logistics of coordinating everything throughout this transition have been, to put it mildly, a lot. Between my professional responsibilities, helping her get settled, the effort to keep our family traditions alive, and the constant need to be the "supportive one," I’m working overtime to show everyone that I’m still "doin’ the things." I’m trying to be the steady anchor for everyone else, even though the woman doing the heavy lifting is running on nothing but caffeine, dark chocolate, and willpower.

Scene 4: The Costume Change. I mostly live in American Eagle, Lululemon, Adidas, and especially Fabletics—my absolute go-to. I’m dressed for a marathon, but the only race I’m running is the one against my own grief. It’s a great performance—I look like a woman who is ready to tackle a workout, when in reality, my treadmill and stationary bike are collecting more dust than I am miles. I literally have clothing on hangers hanging from my bike handlebars. Stop! I feel you judging me! But I’m not asking for your judgment; I’m asking for a little grace. Fitness used to be my top priority, my non-negotiable anchor. Now, I find myself longing to get back to that healthy routine, craving those positive endorphins just to feel like me again.

But the discipline and drive that used to come so easily

have evaporated since Greg passed.

Every time I look at those machines, or my brand-new, unused Pilates equipment, it’s a reminder of the version of myself that had a partner to share the journey with. I’m stuck in this "costume" of fitness, waiting for the motivation to catch up to the clothes, but for now, I’m just trying to keep my head above water.

Act III: The Glitch & The Improvisation

Remember how I said I wasn’t a very good actress back in high school? It appears that "Grief" is an exceptional showcase of performances. Over these last few months, I’ve accidentally become a world-class professional. The acting has actually become too superb. I got so good at the script that people believed it. They’d ask, "How are you?" and I’d deliver the lie perfectly: "Oh, I'm doing fine!"

But lately, I’ve started rewriting my own lines. When the "How are you?" cue comes, I’ve started improvising. I say, "Oh, I’m doing good enough," or just, "Keeping busy."

Frankly, I’ve started to loathe that question, mostly because I know most people ask it as a filler—they have no intention of stopping, no desire to hear a real answer, and are already halfway down the hall before I even open my mouth. It’s like a social tick. So, I’ve been tempted to start throwing some curveballs just to see if anyone is actually listening. Maybe next time, I’ll reply with, "Oh, I’m fantastic, just waiting for the aliens to land," or, "Honestly, I’m doing great, but my pet dinosaur is feeling a bit under the weather." It might catch them off guard, but at least it’s more interesting than the lie we’re both expecting.

The rule is simple:

Don’t ask me how I’m doing unless you really, truly care.

I’ve even started testing the waters by being a little more open about how I’m really feeling. And let me tell you—it makes most people uncomfortable. You can see it in their eyes: the twitch, the sudden desire to change the subject, the awkward shift in posture.

But here’s the kicker:

Their discomfort is not my problem to solve.

I’ve spent too much time playing the "good actress" to make everyone else feel comfortable, but the show is over. If my reality makes you uncomfortable, that’s just a sign that you aren’t used to seeing the truth.

I’ve also found my own therapy. I spent a couple of months meeting with a professional counselor, but I realized that our sessions weren’t the turning point.

The real breakthrough happened

in the quiet moments

between those meetings,

in the pages of my journal.

Writing has become the main thing that grounds me; it’s where I can take off the makeup, drop the script, and finally speak the truth without an audience. It’s my lifeline, my real work, and the only place where I don’t have to act at all.

So—how am I? I'm vertical, caffeinated, and making it happen. That's a win, right?

Act IV: The Stand-In & The Script

My retired "acting career" recently received an unexpected revival, and it taught me the most profound lesson about theater—and about my own life—since Greg passed.

Last December, just two short months after we lost him, I almost canceled our planned trip to NYC. It felt wrong to "have fun" when our family was shattered. To be frank, the judgment from others is sometimes heavier than the grief itself. But I’m profoundly glad Avery and I went.

One of the experiences I wanted to give her was of real theater. I wanted her to see the kind of artistry where actors don’t just say lines; they become them. We went to see Wicked. I went in expecting glitz, big numbers, and maybe a distraction. I came out a converted soul. The artistry was immense, yes, but its themes resonate at a level I was unprepared for.

The song near the end, about being "changed for the better" simply because you knew someone… it destroyed my performance. It made me realize that all my "acting" over the last few months was a shallow limitation of what theater—and life—can really do. Those actors up there weren’t playing a role; they were acting as a stand-in for my soul, giving voice to a truth I didn’t have the strength to say.

https://youtu.be/wYTeyNB1k5g?si=MIeM8OloYQO_A-en

For my entire life, I had dismissed theater. But in that seat, with the snow falling outside, I understood the true power of this art form. Theater isn’t about wearing a mask; it's about seeing the universal human heart—its love, its grief, its beautiful, messy truth—perfectly articulated, even when you have no words of your own.

As the song says,

"So much of me is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart."

Wicked reminded me that love is the most powerful magic we have. It is the real script. It’s the "untold" joy Greg would want us to keep searching for, and...

choosing that joy

is not a betrayal of grief.

It’s an act of pure,

unfiltered love.

Act V: Back to Reality, Unscripted

I’m retiring from the production of "Everything is Fine." I’m ready to just be me—the person who is tired, who is grieving, and who is officially under new management.

And you know? There is one final truth I’ve realized. As much as Scene 2 feels like the most intense, dramatic part of this entire production, it’s also the place where I find the most peace. Because when I look at those memories—the laughter, the cannonballs, the sunshine—I’m reminded that there was never any acting in that pool. There was no script, no performance, and no "fine." There was just us, our family, and pure, unfiltered love. That is a memory I can hold onto, and no amount of "acting" could ever make it as real as it actually was. I know it would make Greg so proud to see us all out there this summer, watching Addy and Elliott build their own happy memories and grow up in that water, just like we always planned.

The show is over. Now, I’m finally off-script, stepping out of the theater and back into the beautifully unscripted, messy reality of my own life.

But I don't walk into this reality alone. So much of who I am today is made of what I learned from Greg. He’ll be with me, always, like a handprint on my heart. Choosing to keep living, to search for the 'untold' joy ahead—that is my way of honoring the man who changed me for good. This is for you, my Greg. Always.

Journal Prompts for You:

1. The "Improv" Question: What is the one question or comment you get from others that makes you feel like you have to start "acting"? What do you wish you could say instead?

   
   

2. The "Costume" Check: What is your version of the "I'm okay" outfit? That thing you wear to convince the world—and maybe yourself—that you’re holding it together?

   
   

3. The "Intermission" Plan: When your social battery hits 0% from "performing" for others, how do you "retire" to your dressing room? How do you drop the mask when no one is watching?

   
   

4. The "Stage Manager" Paradox: Are you so busy managing the "backstage" of everyone else's life that you’re avoiding looking at the empty stage in your own?

#deathofspouse #widowedandstillrising #thejenjournal #griefjourney #changedforgood