Sometimes I go back and read the things I’ve written. The pieces soaked in sorrow, stitched with fear, lined with hope that feels thinner by the day. I read them as if I’m reading about someone else—this woman who is grieving, aching, fighting to keep going.

And then, like a wave crashing in without warning, I realize:
This woman is me.

The broken wife I’ve written about.
She’s not a character. She’s not someone else’s tragedy.
She’s the reflection I try to avoid in the mirror when the house is quiet.

How did I become her?

When did my life turn into a series of days I’m just trying to survive?
How do I keep pushing through, day after day, when the weight of it all feels unbearable?

Some mornings, it takes everything in me just to sit up in bed. The silence beside me where laughter used to be is a cruel reminder. My best friend, my partner—he’s still here, but not in the way he used to be. Depression has swallowed the man I love, and every suicide attempt shatters us a little more.

He is safe right now, in the hospital, but he is not okay. And neither am I.

Yet I show up to work.
I answer emails.
I smile and make small talk with coworkers who glance at me with worry in their eyes.
They don’t know what to say. So I make it easier for them. I say, “I’m good, how are you?” I compliment their outfits. I pretend.

But inside?
Inside I am breaking.

I am grieving a man who is still alive.
I am grieving the future I thought we’d have.
I am grieving the parts of myself I’ve had to bury just to keep us afloat.

I feel guilty for this grief. There are people who have lost their spouses forever. One woman I used to work with lost her husband suddenly in November—no warning, no second chance. And here I am, mourning a man I can still hold, still talk to, still fight for.

But I have learned this: grief is not a competition.
Pain is pain, and mine is real.

Living in this in-between space—between hope and helplessness, between love and loss—is exhausting. It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it. It’s the kind of pain that doesn’t scream. It whispers. It hides in the pauses. It clings to your breath and your bones.

And yet… I keep going.

Because somewhere, somehow, there’s still a thread of strength running through me. It’s not loud. It’s not flashy. But it’s there.

It’s in the way I still hold on.
In the way I still believe he’s worth fighting for.
In the way I’ve refused to let this darkness take both of us.

Maybe that’s what this story really is—not just about a broken wife, but about a woman who is still standing. Who gets up every morning, even when it hurts. Who hasn’t stopped loving, even when it would be easier to walk away.

Maybe I am broken.
But maybe I am also brave.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.