#newwidow

[serendipityandsoulmates]

Sorting Through Love, Loss and Socks

Lisa M. Fagan

It started with the socks. Which, naturally, led to the t-shirts. Then the shorts. You know how that goes.

Yes—I made the decision to reorganize the space Eddie and I once shared. Drawer by drawer, then inching into the closet. Was I ready? Not really. There's a kind of guilt that surfaces when you touch what's still sacred. But after Eddie’s kids said they'd like some of his things, I knew it was time. I gathered what belonged to him—his clothes, his memorabilia—and placed it all in one space, easy to get to.

I wasn’t emotionally ready, but a big part of me wanted to clear the "business" side of grief so I could move forward. Not move on—just forward.

As I sifted through his things, I was reminded of how wonderfully minimal Eddie was.

No clutter. No chaos.

Just hundreds of photos of his kids, a few from past relationships, finish-line snapshots from his runs, and high school and college keepsakes. Everything in its place. So much so, I kept apologizing every time I knocked something over—like I’d disrupted his sacred Feng shui.

No surprises. Just Eddie—exactly as I knew him.

Death Grief & Clutter

I’ve never feared death, and when Eddie passed, I found myself even more at peace with it. I believe I’ll be with him again. But death also has a way of nudging your practical side. It reminded me that I need to get my own affairs in order—so when my son is grieving, he won’t also be wading through the logistical weight of my life.

Grief rearranges your thoughts. It makes you rethink what you thought you understood. It makes you see different sides of people - the good, bad and ugly. Eddie didn’t have a lot, and that was one of the things I loved about him. He grew up with little, so what he earned, he worked hard for it and truly appreciated it. We shared a beautiful home, but most of his money went where it mattered—child support, school fees, doctor visits, college costs, and all the invisible expenses that come with loving your kids fiercely.

He didn’t leave behind abundance. He left enough. Enough for his children to start the next chapter, and the wisdom to earn what they want from there. He left me a portion of his retirement and a lifetime of stories. And that’s more than enough.

Clearing out Eddie’s side of the closet gave me a moment to face my own clutter. It’s wild how much we accumulate—and how little of it feels necessary when you’re trying to breathe again. (I won’t even talk about the clothes that don’t fit anymore.)

One drawer led to the next room. One shelf led to a mental unburdening. Turns out, reorganizing a closet can reorganize your whole spirit.

I feel lighter. Clearer. Like I made space for something new to grow.

And whenever that day comes, and my son is going through my things, I hope he sees a little of what I saw in Eddie—organization, thoughtfulness, love folded into each choice. I’ve made sure he’ll have enough to begin his own story, and the freedom to shape it however he wants.

Death is dark. Grief is exhausting. But they’re also clarifying.

And sometimes, in the quiet of sorting socks and stories, you start to see the beauty in the things you used to overlook.

If you're grieving and need support, here are resources I found that offer grief and loss support - mentalhealthhotline.org, The Maven Clinic, and grief.com.

Read an excerpt from our story.

[serendipityandsoulmates]

What Grief Teaches You After Losing Someone You Love

Lisa M. Fagan

Grief has changed me. Who I am now feels light-years from the woman I was on May 14th, the day before my husband left this world. Loving Eddie, and being loved by him, was one of the greatest gifts of my life. His love wasn’t loud or demanding. It was steady, kind, and wide enough for all the parts of me I wasn’t sure deserved it.

I’ve learned so much from him. Not just while he was here, holding my hand through ordinary days, but in the quiet after. In the stillness of missing him.

Here are five things that have slowly taken shape for me. If you're moving through grief, some of them might feel familiar.

1. Grief is everywhere

Grief rewires you. Not just in how you hold your own grief, but how you pick up on it in other people. Especially the kind that doesn’t come with funerals or casseroles. You see it in the shift behind someone’s smile when they talk about a job they lost. A friendship that quietly faded. It’s subtle, but it’s everywhere. It's in that tiny pause before someone says “I’m good,” like they’re checking if they actually are.

Grief doesn’t just show up when someone dies. It lives in layoffs and hard decisions and the dreams that drift out of reach. In the stuff packed away that doesn’t fit your life anymore—but still somehow matters.

You don’t go around naming it for people. But you feel it. And you honor it. Because grief doesn’t always look like grief. And it deserves to be seen anyway.

2. Most things don't hit that hard anymore

After you lose someone you love, something shifts permanently. Your life rearranges, and suddenly the everyday triggers don’t register the same way. The Wi-Fi’s down? Okay. The coffee’s cold? Mild tragedy. Someone cuts you off in traffic? A dramatic gasp, and then you move on.

After grief walks through your door and makes itself at home, most things lose their ability to shake you. You’ve already felt the earth crack open beneath your feet. You’ve already lived through what felt unlivable. So when life throws its usual nonsense your way, you just nod, adjust, and carry on. It’s not that nothing matters—it’s that the volume’s been recalibrated. And the things that used to feel earthshattering? They’re just mildly inconvenient now. Annoying, but they don’t get center stage anymore. That role’s already been filled, and grief is not sharing the spotlight.

3. It's okay to be happy

Grief doesn’t mean you stop having good days. It doesn’t mean you’re curled up in a corner forever. Sometimes you laugh so hard you forget, for a split second, that your loved one is not here. You catch yourself in a moment that feels light, even ordinary, and it stuns you—not out of guilt, but out of awe. Because joy still lives here too.

Some days, things feel lighter. You'll get lost in a story, or a joke hits just right, or someone says something ridiculous and you snort-laugh before you remember what you're carrying. And that’s okay. That’s human.

Grief doesn’t wipe out everything else. Sometimes it takes a back seat while life reminds you it still knows how to shine. Even with the ache.

4. There's a desire to live better

Losing someone you love cracks you wide open. It strips away all the pretending and all the someday-ing. You start seeing life differently—not just as something to endure or manage, but something sacred and brief. Nothing lasts forever. And when you’ve felt that truth in your bones, you can’t help but want to do better. To live better.

Grief teaches you that waiting is a luxury. That loving fiercely and showing up fully isn't just beautiful—it’s necessary. You don’t want to sleepwalk through a life that could be gone in a blink. You want to be awake for it. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

You don't live your best life because everything’s perfect. You do it because you finally get how fragile all of this is. And you want to honor what you've lost by not wasting what you still have.

5. Support comes when you least expect it

It’s hard to tell people your loved one died. You don’t want to drop sadness into someone’s sunny afternoon or turn a casual catch-up into a grief spiral. You catch yourself changing the subject, deflecting, smiling through it. It’s easier to pretend for a minute.

But the truth waits in your throat. And when you finally say it—when you let the words fall—there’s relief. Like you've been holding a heavy secret and finally set it down. People don’t look away. They lean in. They offer, a drink, a dinner. Or say, “Call me.”

They want to show up, even if it’s messy. And you start to let them. There’s something deeply human about it—this willingness to witness each other’s heartbreak. To say, “I see you. I’ll sit with you.”

So here I am. Still figuring it out. Still learning how to carry the love, the loss, and the everyday mess of life without dropping the laughter along the way.

Grief sucks! And navigating the heaviness of it can sometimes distract you from the things you still need to make you feel normal.

So if someone offers a drink, or offers to sit with you, say yes. Even if it feels easier to wave them off. Even if your first instinct is to protect them from your sadness, or protect yourself from feeling too much.

Say yes, because these moments matter. Not for fixing anything, but for reminding you that you’re not alone. Letting them in doesn’t mean you’re falling apart. It just means you’re letting grief be witnessed. And that’s a quiet kind of healing too.

I know I don't have all of the answers. These are the five things I've learned. I’d love to hear your opinions on this in the comments. Or if you can relate, drop a "like".

Need support? Here are resources I found that offer grief and loss support - mentalhealthhotline.org, The Maven Clinic, and grief.com.

[luna-e-laltra]

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