Suck It Up, Buttercup! Resilience, Grief, and Life After Losing Your Spouse

Almost every morning, I get this tempting urge to throw an exclusive, VIP-only pity party. On workdays, it hits at 4:50 AM, when the empty side of the bed sparks that feral “burn it all down” instinct. On weekends, it waits until about 6:30 AM, slipping in quieter but completely smug—like, “Hey queen, miss me?”

The dress code? Mismatched pj's that have completely given up on life.

The venue? My bed.

The catering? A heaping pile of “Why me?” with a side of “My life sucks, everything is awful, and I’m not moving.”

And honestly? When you lose your person, and your whole world gets tossed into a blender like hot liquid without the lid on, you’ve earned a few of those parties.

Grief is exhausting.

It’s heavy.

It’s messy.

It’s a complete mind-scramble.

Some days, you just want to lie on the floor and whine at the ceiling.

Violins are currently playing the world's saddest song just for you.

Then there is the reality nobody orders: You’re sitting in your beautifully clean car. Heated seats. Sunroof. Engine purring. You look like a fully functioning adult. Except—you’re parked in the garage, crying to Luke Combs “Used to You”, staring at a stain on your hoodie that is either face oil… or guacamole from three days ago. You wanted to be poetic and tragic. Instead, you look like a grief gremlin hiding from the neighbors. Congrats, you wrecked your makeup.

And eventually—whether you like it or not—you run straight into this truth:

You are still here.

“Not thriving. Not flourishing. Just aggressively refusing to quit — honestly, a mood.”

The Buttercup Moment

I got curious the other day about the flower itself.

You know the buttercup? We think of it as this sweet, delicate, bright yellow thing dotting a field. But if you actually look at how it grows, it’s a stubborn, aggressive little survivor. It doesn’t need a perfectly manicured greenhouse. It grows in compacted soil, along the sides of highways, and through cracks in asphalt. It handles frost, it handles being stepped on, and it just keeps pushing its way toward the light.

It doesn't ask permission to grow in a broken landscape; it just does.

Which sounds incredibly poetic on paper, but in reality? At least three times today, I’ve seriously contemplated quitting my job, moving to Jamaica, building a questionable little hut, and becoming an emotionally unstable coconut farmer.

Because when everything feels like too much, your brain doesn’t suggest rest. It goes straight to,

“What if I just disappeared and never answered another email again?”

And honestly? Some days, that sounds easier than facing one more normal day without them.

Because it’s never just one big thing...

It’s the necklace or bracelet you can’t clasp anymore because that used to be their job, that tiny, ordinary kindness you didn’t realize was holding you together.

It's cooking dinner for one.

It’s the sports‑bra straps twisted into some bleak little geometry problem you no longer have the energy to solve.

The jar that won’t open.

The shirt‑and‑shorts combo that walks out the door looking like a colorblind golfer because they are not there to roll their eyes and make you change.

The trash that still has to go out.

The missing keys that no longer magically appear when you yell into the empty house, "Hey, have you seen my...?"

The pool that needs vacuuming.

That one itchy spot in the middle of your back you cannot reach to scratch.

That one rogue chin‑hair you can see but can’t reach, no matter how you tilt your head.

It’s the thousand tiny reminders — ALL. DAY. LONG. — that they’re not here to make life easier anymore, and the exhaustion comes from knowing these small, stupid moments are now yours alone — every. single. time.

And grief doesn’t pause real life. One minute you’re trying to have a profound, soul‑searching moment next to a giant swimming pool… and the next you’re realizing the water has turned radioactive green, the skimmer basket is choking on leaves, and a tadpole uprising may already be in progress.

You have two choices: Feel your feelings about it, or fish out the tadpole.

Because the tadpole doesn’t care about your grief. And honestly? Neither does the pool chemistry.

Feeling It vs. Living In It

Let’s be clear—crying is not the problem. Processing the absolute dumpster fire you’ve been handed? Mandatory.

But there’s a difference between feeling your feelings… and letting them become your permanent address.

So here’s the part no one warns you about:  

There’s a long stretch where you’re doing both at the same time.

You’re crying and paying the electric bill.

You’re grieving and unloading the dishwasher.

You’re heartbroken and answering emails like a semi‑functional adult.

It’s not pretty. It’s not inspiring. It’s survival in motion.

You’re allowed to fall apart. 

You’re allowed to be angry, tired, overwhelmed, and undone.

You’re allowed to have days where brushing your teeth feels like climbing Everest.

But you’re not required to build a house in that place.

You don’t owe grief your whole life.

Yes, it’s unfair.

Yes, it hurts.

Yes, this is absolutely not the life you ordered.

But staying stuck there doesn’t fix anything.

It doesn’t pay the bills.

It doesn’t make life easier.

And it doesn’t bring them back.

Welcome to the Mulligrubs

When you’re deep in the mulligrubs—that dark, stuck, heavy funk—you don’t need a complicated system. You’re not applying for a grief PhD. You need something simple enough to do without first giving yourself a TED Talk in the mirror.

The Five-Minute Meltdown: 

Set a timer. For five minutes, go all in. Cry. Yell. Complain. Deliver an Oscar‑worthy monologue about how the universe has personally wronged you. But when the timer goes off? Party’s over. Blow your nose. Stand up. Move your body. Think of it as emotional interval training.

Change Your Geography: 

Mulligrubs thrive on stillness like mold in a damp basement. Go outside. Sit somewhere new. Hop on a treadmill and walk until your legs hurt more than your feelings, or just stare at a different wall. Change the scenery before your brain decides to host a full‑scale existential rave.

Do One “Aggressively Normal” Thing: 

Wash three dishes. Fold one load of laundry. Put on real pants—yes, jeans, the denim leg prisons. Normal feels pointless when your world is broken. Do it anyway. It tells your brain: “The world didn’t end. And neither did I. Also, look at me doing chores like a functioning adult. Somebody alert the media.”

Outsource Survival: 

You do not need to impress anyone right now. Eat the easy meal. Order the takeout. Roll through a steakhouse pickup lane like a grief‑stricken raccoon seeking warmth and protein. This is not the season for culinary excellence. This is the season for “fed counts as successful.”

The Choice

At some point, it comes down to this:

You can sit in the mess forever, pointing at the broken pieces.

Or, you can pick up a broom.

Both hurt. But only one moves you forward.

Resilience is NOT graceful.

It’s not inspiring quotes or perfect healing moments.

Most days? It’s stubborn. It’s sarcastic.

It’s dragging yourself forward, thinking,

“Fine. I’m doing this. But I don’t like it.”

So, if you need to fall apart today? Do it. Set the timer. Cry it out. Be messy.

But when that moment ends—stand up. Wipe your face. Take one step. Then another.

The world might be broken… but you are not completely out of order yet.

And here’s the part that loops back—the part the Buttercup already knew:

You don’t have to bloom beautifully.

You don’t have to bloom on schedule.

You don’t have to bloom in the right soil, or the soft soil, or the soil you wanted.

You just have to keep pushing toward the light in the cracked, compacted, frost‑bitten landscape you didn’t choose.

That’s it.

That’s the whole assignment.

Not pretty—just persistent.

So yeah—suck it up, buttercup.

Not because you’re supposed to be tough,

But because you’re built like the flower that survives the impossible.

We’ve got this.

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If You’re Sitting in the Mulligrubs Today—Try This

If you’ve got a few minutes and a semi-functioning pen or pencil, take a second to look at these three prompts. No editing, no pretending to be fine. Just get it out of your head and onto paper:

• What is one “tiny but huge” thing that has felt harder lately—and why? (The necklace clasp, the twisted sports bra, the colorblind golfer outfit, the green pool, cooking dinner—start small. That’s where the truth usually lives.)

  
  

• If I could say one completely unfiltered, honest thing about how I’m really doing right now, it would be… (Write it exactly as it shows up.)

  
  

• What is one small, doable thing I can do today that my future self will be glad I did? (Not a life overhaul. One thing. Tiny counts.)

You don’t have to figure everything out today.

Just don’t stay stuck forever.

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A Note from Jen...

If you made it all the way to the end of this emotional roller coaster, congratulations—you’ve earned a gold star and possibly a shot of tequila. Honestly, take two.

Grief is weird, resilience is weirder, and I’m pretty sure I’m one minor inconvenience away from adopting a stray raccoon and naming it “Emotional Support Ron.” If this entry made you laugh, cry, or Google “how to start a coconut farm with no skills,” tell me about it. I genuinely love hearing how these chaotic little essays land in your world.