There's a before and after. Before, I wrote my blog like I was whispering to the empty house after the kids went to bed. Just me, the coffee cold in my hand, and the ghost of my wife in the quiet. I’d type about the funeral cake still sitting on the table at 3 a.m., or how the toaster broke again and I had to make toast for three kids with one hand while holding a wrench. I thought it was just me, drowning in the same old water.
Then, one Tuesday, after I’d posted about my youngest asking where Mom’s picture was on his school photo, a comment popped up. Not a "sorry for your loss" thing. Just: “My husband died last month. I’m crying at my kitchen table reading this. Thank you.” Signed Sarah, Ohio.
Look, I’m no expert on grief. I was just trying to figure out how to get the kids to school without breaking down myself. But that comment? It hit me like a loose wire shorting out. I’d been writing for me, thinking no one else was listening. Turns out, someone was. And they were hurting too.
Here’s what I figured out: Sharing your story isn’t about being strong. It’s about realizing you’re not alone in the dark. It’s not about fixing anything for them. It’s just saying, “Yeah, I’ve been there too.” And that’s enough.
So I stopped hiding. I wrote about the time I cried over a broken light switch because it reminded me of her fixing the porch light. I wrote about the kid who asked why I didn’t have a wife anymore. I didn’t sugarcoat it. I just said it like it was. And people started writing back. Not just Sarah. A guy in Texas who’d lost his mom. A woman whose son was sick. They weren’t asking for advice. They were saying, “Me too.”
That’s when I stopped feeling like a broken thing. I became a guy who could say, “Yeah, this sucks. But you’re not the only one holding the wrench right now.” It didn’t make the grief go away. But it made the weight feel lighter, like I wasn’t carrying it all by myself.
You just do the next thing. Post the next word. Fix the next light. Show up. And sometimes, you realize the thing you thought was just for you? It’s a lifeline for someone else.
— Jimmy Hawkins, just a dad figuring it out