Everyone walks through seasons they never imagined. Mine happens to be one that hits one of life’s deepest fears — losing the person you love. I’ve lived that more than once, and at ages when loss wasn’t supposed to be part of my story.

When my first husband died, I was sitting in the family room of the ICU at the Cleveland Clinic. I remember two things: holding his foot while we prayed and gave him back to God, and my pastor asking if I took any medication. I honestly thought he was warning me that a complete breakdown was coming. That’s how fragile I felt.

Those thoughts aren’t unusual. When life blindsides you, your mind goes straight to the worst places.

In the 21 years since that day, life has been a mix of rebuilding and being knocked down again: remarriage, an MBA, moving back to my family, losing my mom, certifications, helping my husband through heart attack and brain injury recovery, being widowed again, remarriage again, miscarriage, septic shock, layoffs, and the emotional chaos of perimenopause.

And somehow, I’ve smiled almost every day.

People started asking me to share my “secret.” I still don’t know what secret they meant. But I do know this: my life is full of intention. And choosing joy — deliberately, stubbornly, quietly — is my why.

Here’s what took me years to understand:

After life hits you hard, the first stretch is pure survival. You eat because someone tells you to. You go to work because the cat needs food. You wash your sheets because they itch. You wash your hair because it’s so dirty it stays in a ponytail without the holder. You forget chores. You make dark jokes about widowhood because honesty feels better than pretending.

Then one day, you laugh. Just once. Maybe you notice, maybe you don’t. But it’s the first crack in the fog. You’re not thriving. You’re not “back.” But you’re still here.

Eventually — quietly, almost accidentally — you make a decision: to live again.

Not perfectly. Not consistently. But intentionally. You let yourself laugh at the absurd things people say. You feel guilty the next day. You choose joy again anyway. It’s a process.

And slowly, you realize you can’t control what happens, but you can choose how you live through it. Some days your heart won’t cooperate. But you see the possibility.

That’s where I hope to meet you — in that space between surviving and choosing joy. If you’re not there yet, that’s okay. If you’re already fighting your way forward, that’s incredible.

And when life throws something new at you — because it probably will — I hope you remember the survivor you already are… and stay long enough to find your joy again.