Standing at the Edge of the Year

The last few days of 2025 have felt different than the last few days of 2024 did. As the noise of the busy holidays has started to fade, I noticed that the Christmas and winter decorations that I love so much have started to feel a bit stale (I usually like to keep them up until January 2nd). I have also noticed the tug of grief becoming more persistent as the quiet settles into my soul in these final hours of December. I have to say that I find this a bit ironic because I am sitting at the airport on New Year’s Eve, waiting to board a flight. But somehow, despite the hustle and bustle of the airport lounge, these final few hours do feel quieter. What I am feeling feels a bit heavier than celebration, yet softer than sorrow. It feels as if this tug of grief is inviting me to reflect more, knowing that I still feel a bit reluctant to dive too deeply into the past twelve months. Grief knows I have to be willing to sit down and have a conversation with it in order to enter into 2026 a little less burdened and with a clearer vision. So it tugs. Even in this airport, it wants my attention.

As 2025 comes to a close, I find myself standing at its edge, hand in hand with grief, not with a long list of accomplishments or resolutions (though truly, I have both), but with a full heart and tired bones. This year asked things of me that I did not volunteer for, nor did I want. It required patience when I wanted clarity, endurance when I longed for rest, peace when chaos and confusion surrounded me, and honesty when it would have been easier to keep pretending. Some seasons demanded strength. Others required surrender. Both were costly in their own way.

This year also involved movement. A lot of it. It wasn’t always the kind of movement that changed my physical location. Grief required me to move and shift my perspective on many different aspects of my life, including the goals I had set in late December of 2024. There is something about airports, scenic highways, hotel rooms, and long drives where the landscape shifts while the heart desperately tries to catch up. In 2025, travel became less about escaping or arriving at a destination and more about what happens in between.

Just a couple of weeks following my husband’s death, Thanksgiving of 2023, I traveled to suppress the intense waves of grief and shock. Looking back, travel gave me the space to breathe and to find a bit of joy in what was now a marked holiday season. I refused to allow death to take ownership of Christmas. The quiet moments staring out airplane windows and the anonymity of being in places that were not my hometown allowed grief to loosen its grip just enough for me to move through that first Christmas without him. The relief of being on an airplane, in a hotel room, or in a rental car felt like an escape. Traveling in 2024, that first full year following his death, felt the same. Travel was like applying pressure to a wound, slowing the bleeding of intense emotion.

In 2025, travel began to shift my journey through grief. Grief no longer tolerated being “left at home” or taking a backseat. There were more and more moments when grief showed up as an unwanted travel partner. I didn’t really want to hike trails, swim oceans, or sit on a lounge chair with grief insisting on coming alongside me. I wanted to outrun the feelings it was beckoning me to sit with, even if it was only asking for a brief moment of my time. Traveling to Europe wasn’t far enough to outrun it. Diving in the turquoise waters of a faraway island wasn’t deep enough to escape it. State after state, country after country, work trip after work trip, it kept showing up. This year, grief required me to stay in place and confront it whenever and wherever it decided to appear. Sadness, tears, and loneliness could not be replaced by beautiful and breathtaking locations or even travel partners. Language barriers in different countries did not give pause to grief because, really, grief knows no language. I had to face it.

Through my travels in 2025, I learned that not all moments of healing announce themselves with milestones or victories. Sometimes healing and growth come simply from surviving waves of despair, even when those waves hit while sitting on a white sandy beach. Sometimes it looked like packing a bag and trusting myself enough to go, even when I was unsure of what I would feel when I arrived. I also didn’t know if grief would awkwardly show up with its bags packed full of memories and moments I thought had been buried with my husband. The feeling was disconcerting, to say the least.

The lessons of 2025 did not arrive loudly. They came quietly, slipping in during long drives, sleepless nights, and ordinary moments that did not seem significant at the time. I learned that grief does not move on a schedule and that healing does not follow straight lines. I learned that my faith, which I depend on so deeply, can be both sturdy and fragile at the same time. As I often say, two things can be true at once. I also learned that rest is not wasted time and that stillness can be a form of trust in the grieving process, one that does not have to be scary.

As I prepare to step into a new year, there are things I am choosing to leave behind on purpose. Unrealistic expectations. Timelines that were never mine to begin with. The pressure I have placed on myself to be “over it,” “past it,” or “back to normal.” I am also leaving behind the idea that travel should either fix me or distract me from my grief. Instead, I am learning to let it simply accompany me, mile by mile. I have allowed grief to become my invited travel mate.

There are also things I will carry forward into the new year. While sometimes proving difficult, I will show myself more compassion. I will work on finding the courage to be more vulnerable. I want to bring a sense of gentleness and softness into an industry that often rewards toughness and grit. I am carrying the understanding that movement, whether a walk around the block or a plane ride across the globe, can be healing, not because it erases pain, but because it reminds me that I am still alive, still capable of wonder, and still willing to step into the unknown.

If you are reading this in the final days of the year or at the beginning of a new one, perhaps you, too, have logged some miles, literal or emotional. Perhaps you have stayed close to home and traveled inward instead. Either way, you do not need to summarize your year neatly or make sense of everything you lived through. You do not need a polished reflection or a hopeful ending. It is enough to be honest about where you are standing right now.

There is something sacred about the space I stand in, between what was and what will be. The in-between places have taught me that grief often meets us not at the final destination, but somewhere along the road. As 2025 closes, may we allow ourselves to pause here for a moment. To breathe. To release. To step forward not with certainty, but with grace for our uninvited friend, grief, and grace for ourselves.

The holiday season is typically a difficult time for people in general.  There is nothing quite like the stressors of hosting feisty family members, trying to figure out a budget for purchasing gifts, and watching routines and habits get thrown by the wayside, all because it’s the holiday season!  For those who tend to travel during the holidays, that’s a whole other level of headaches and heartaches to contend with.  Holiday travel can stir up a lot of emotions in the best of times, but for those who have suffered the loss of a loved one, the journey can feel even more complicated and messy.

All that is familiar, such as airports, car rental companies, and towns that were once a place we called home, seem to look the same. We see people who seem to move with ease and excitement as they make their way through TSA lines and baggage claim. And yet what you see is very different.  You are burdened by having to carry a weight that others cannot see. There is the heartache of now having an empty seat beside you on the airplane, or no longer having your person help you navigate through a new city.  Loss feels like it has seeped into every nook-and-cranny of airplanes, hotel rooms, restaurants, and even your luggage.  Your story of loss has fundamentally changed your perspective and travel can heighten emotions that are already raw and tender.

Traveling, especially during the holidays, doesn’t have to feel like something you survive.  Your trip should help you thrive and hopefully lift your spirits.  With a focus on intention, extending grace to yourself, and giving yourself plenty of time, your trip can become a meaningful part of your healing and recovery.  Traveling can be a gentle reminder that life keeps moving forward and that you’re allowed to move with it.

I have put together some tips to help you to travel well during the holidays when grief is part of the luggage you carry.

1. Build in More Time Than You Think You Need

When you’re grieving, everything takes more energy.  Even the simplest tasks can feel monumental.  Packing, getting out the door (with everything we need), finding parking, navigating lines, and moving through crowds can feel daunting. Add holiday chaos on top of that, and it’s so easy to feel overwhelmed. Give yourself extra time.  What used to take you only an hour, now you should allow yourself at least an hour-and-a-half or two hours.  With ‘grief brain,’ moving at breakneck speed can cause you to forget important details.  The loss of my husband happened two years ago and my ability to recall things still lags.  I have to intentionally make myself slow down.  I also have to set reminders on my phone and leave sticky notes on the counter so I don’t forget important tasks.

Let your pace be slower. Moving slowly and without pressure can make the journey feel less like a race.

2. Pack with Purpose, Not Perfection

Grief has a way of consuming mental space, and sometimes packing feels like climbing a steep and rocky trail. I have become more intentional in the way that I pack now.  Before my loss, I could throw clothes and shoes into a suitcase and easily come up with outfits.  Now, a jumbled suitcase only causes my brain to feel overloaded.  Pinterest lists and packing cubes have become my new best friends.  Pinterest helps me choose outfits and items to pack according to the destination or the time of year that I am traveling. Packing cubes keeps it all organized. 

It's also helpful to pack a few items that will help ground you when you feel a wave a grief approaching.  Items that have helped me are a small fuzzy blanket, a piece of jewelry that carries meaning (for me that is a special necklace that my husband gave me), a small water coloring book, a notebook to write down thoughts, and a printed photo. All of these things have provided me comfort on flights and in hotel rooms where I tend to feel the most alone.

Pack things that comfort you. Pack clothes that work best for you. And if you forget something?  With overnight shipping on Amazon, or same/next day pick-up services at big box stores, you can almost always replace the item.

3. Create Small Moments of Calm

Travel can be overstimulating, and grief often amplifies that feeling. Look for moments of quiet wherever you can find them. I look for spaces that are tucked away in the corners of an airport. That could look like an empty gate, a corner table at a restaurant or coffee shop.

Before you walk inside a location to greet family or friends, give yourself a moment of silence and practice some breathwork in your car. Allow yourself a minute to breathe, feel the emotions, pray, or simply be. These pauses will help regulate stress responses in your body.

4. Expect Flexibility with Plans and with Yourself

Holiday travel is notorious for delays and unexpected changes.  On a good day, delays can send us into a tailspin.  If you are carrying grief, unexpected changes can feel devastating, especially if plans have to be cancelled. 

Give yourself flexibility with your emotional responses as well.  You might feel joy one moment and then hit with deep sadness or frustration the next. You might feel excited to see loved ones and then suddenly feel overwhelmed with grief by the empty chair at the table. Being flexible with your plans is important, but being flexible with yourself is crucial.

5. Notice the Small Gifts Along the Way

In the first few months following the loss of my husband, I felt lost in a sea of grief.  My therapist gave me an assignment that felt nearly impossible at times.  She told me to write down three things I was thankful for each day.  She said that anything could count.  I didn’t have to list something that was profound. A morning drop of dew on a blade of grass, or the cardinal on my birdfeeder could count.  She wanted me to try and find these small gifts of joy each day. 

A gratitude list won’t erase the pain, but the things you write down will remind you that beauty still weaves itself through different aspects of your life. Those small things may be what brings you joy and hope.  While you are traveling, keep a list of new experiences or sites that bring you comfort, peace, or happiness.

Traveling during the holidays after loss can be difficult. It requires a lot from you. But, traveling can also be a chance to honor your loved one, create new and meaningful memories, or simply find your footing in a season that looks different now. I would like to encourage you to move forward with planning a trip, even if it’s a day trip to another part of town.  The distance doesn’t matter as much as the experience does.  Move forward with gentleness and care.  Build in time to rest.  Let your emotions be a travel mate, and allow yourself the opportunity to experience new places as part of your journey of healing.

Home used to be a place I could easily define. Home really was anywhere that my family and I resided.  It could be a hotel room, a friend’s home, even in the car as we were taking road trips across the country.  Of course we had our actual home, lovingly referred to as our ‘homebase.’  Home contained the energy of the people who inhabited it.  Home was the weight of his presence in the hallway as he was coming home from work, it was his conversations with my daughter and her friend that I could hear coming from the living room where they played Monopoly.  Those four walls held the rhythm of a shared life that unfolded in familiar patterns. But when John died, everything I thought I knew about home shifted. The map of life I had relied on for decades; the one built on routines and shared dreams no longer existed. I found myself standing in a place I never wanted to explore as I held pieces of a life that no longer fit together in the same way.

No one really prepares you for how home can become both too empty and too crowded at the same time. It’s too empty because the energy of the person who once filled every hallway and every room, is no longer there.  It’s also feels too crowded because every corner carries a memory, a reminder of what once was and what will never be again. Some days, even the walls feel different, it’s as if they are grieving alongside you.

Redefining home after loss isn’t just about physical space. It’s also about learning to live your life again. It’s about figuring out who you are now without having the person there to reflect your thoughts and dreams back to you. It’s about learning to trust your instincts again and to redefine family, and home, and self.  Over the months following John’s death, I began to realize that home may not be a physical place at all.  Home may be something that I rebuild inside myself and carry with me to other spaces and places.

I have found home in unexpected places on this journey of widowhood.  I have found home in the embrace of a dear friend.  I found home in an 1800’s era log cabin in Nashville that I found on Air B&B.  Home is in my car driving with my daughter to a favorite coffee shop in downtown Houston.  Home has also been having conversations with others who have endured loss.  Home has been both the structure that is attached to my mailing address and on a ship sailing in the Fjords.

Redefining home doesn’t mean letting go of the love that built the old one. It means allowing that love to travel with you into a life that looks different than the one you had once  planned. It means moving into the acceptance that the map has changed.  While the road may feel unfamiliar and the scenery looks quite different, it is still yours to walk. Some days, the path is easy to walk. Other days, you may need to stop and catch your breath. Both are part of the journey.

Loss forces you to redraw the boundaries of everything, your identity, your purpose or your why, feelings of safety, relationships, social structures and even faith. But loss also invites us, often painfully, into a deeper understanding of what home truly means.  Defining what a home is is deeply personal.  Each individual has their own experiences, thoughts and opinions. For me, home has become the place where the memories we built as a family of three rest gently.  It’s a place of solace and comfort, where I can easily escape to on days that are difficult.  It has become the space where I have slowly reinvented myself and mapped out what the next part of my journey looks like.

The map may have changed, but we must keep moving forward. Keep looking for places you can call home as you continue to find your way in this new terrain. And even in this unfamiliar landscape, know that you can build a new kind of home, one that honors what was, embraces what is, and leaves room for what will be.

Sometimes I think life is just one long road trip. We make plans, pack our hopes and dreams in the suitcase, and aim ourselves toward whatever destination we believe will bring clarity or meaning. But the more life shifts, particularly in the days, weeks, and months since losing John, the more I realize most of my deepest encounters with God have not always happened when I made it to my destination. They have shown up in the quiet spaces between point A and point B. Sometimes those encounters happen in the back of an Uber while talking with the driver.  Sometimes he shows up in airport lounges or on a local tour.  God seemed to show up in those seemingly small moments when nothing looks different on the outside, but everything inside of us is pivoting.

I remember one afternoon when my daughter and I were sitting on the floor at the airport eating pizza.  Our flight had been delayed for a couple of hours. Everyone around me looked restless and irritated. People were pacing while staring at their screens and sighing loud enough for us to hear.  Some of them were griping at the person beside them.  I was no different. I was anxious to get where I was going, and flight delays always seem to heighten my travel anxiety. Then something small happened. A little girl sitting across from us began singing to her stuffed animal, barely above a whisper. I did not know the song, but her voice was calm, steady, almost like a prayer. Right there in that packed-out terminal gate, surrounded by tired and grumpy travelers, I felt a sense of peace begin to settle in my heart. It was as if God leaned close and said, “I am here too.” I had not been praying; I was complaining in my mind. I had not been searching for comfort; I was leaning into the anxiety. I was reacting to the situation I had found myself in. Yet, God showed up in this ordinary moment.

There have been other times like that. Shortly after John died, I took a trip just to escape the painful reminders of his loss.  I had this primal need to run off to a place far away in order to catch my breath somewhere other than Houston. Grief traveled beside me the whole way. While I waited for the plane to take off, I stared out the window and caught a glimpse of the fire station where he had worked.  In that moment, I was both unsure and afraid of who I would become now that he was gone. In that moment, I heard a gentle reminder deep in my spirit that I was not alone. I was reminded that God would help me get through anything that I faced.

I also think of a night when I drove around my hometown for no real reason. I had nowhere to be and nothing to accomplish. I just needed the hum of the road and the permission to sit in my grief without talking to anyone. I turned off the podcast that was playing on the radio and let the silence wrap around me.  I have always had a difficult relationship with silence.  Most of the time, I am afraid of the silence because of what it might bring up. Somewhere between my house and nowhere in particular, tears came without warning. They weren't tears of grief exactly. The tears were more like a release of the pressure of appearing strong that I had put on myself. The quiet moment felt thick with grace, as if God had slid into the passenger seat to keep me company. And I knew I had been so focused on finding some clear destination that I had forgotten to notice God had been with me the whole time, even in my confusion.

On that trip I took to escape the pain, I went on a hike through a Colorado forest that looked like a winter wonderland.  On the trail, I learned a similar lesson. I had stopped halfway up that steep and rocky path to catch my breath.  In that moment, grief descended on me, and it felt heavier than the backpack I was carrying. A woman walking her dog down the trail I was trying to ascend slowed long enough to tell me the view from the top was spectacular, but the hike up the trail was just as beautiful. She told me to keep on, keeping on. She continued on, but her words settled deep. It felt like God had borrowed her voice for a moment to let me know I did not have to reach the summit for the journey to matter.

What I am learning, slowly and imperfectly, is that there is no final destination in my journey of faith and grief; rather, it unfolds along the way.  There are so many opportunities and moments that show up. More often than not, it shows up in the kindness of strangers who do not even realize they have been used to deliver a message I needed. God does not sit at the summit, waiting for us to pull ourselves together. He walks with us through airport delays, sits in the empty seat next to us on the plane, and hums softly in the car while we navigate detours and missed exits. So, if you find yourself in a season that feels like the future without your loved one is daunting and confusing, a season where the path forward is unclear, or the destination has shifted, would you please hear this? God is not asking you to rush. He is not waiting for you somewhere that is far ahead in the distance that you can barely see. He is already beside you. Right here. In this moment. In this place between destinations.

Some trips don’t ever really end. The memories bounce around the cerebral cortex, the region of the brain that stores long-term memories. Those moments captured in time rearrange themselves in the corners of the mind, waiting for you to circle back. And when the trip is particularly wonderful, and the memories are sweet, it’s hard not to revisit those places that have left a meaningful impression.

There’s a postcard leaning against the lamp on the desk in my art studio right now. Two of the corners are slightly bent from being hastily shoved into my backpack, which somehow feels like an allegory of my life. On the front is a purposefully washed-out photograph of a harbor in Spain, all sun-worn rooftops the color of baked clay and a mixture of fishing boats and pleasure boats bobbing lazily like they’ve got all the time in the world. On the back? My handwriting was cramped, slanted, a little desperate, and barely legible. I like to joke that I have the handwriting of a physician who is late for surgery. I was trying to cram too much heart into the little space allotted for a message meant to be read by a friend or loved one back at home. I wrote it a few short weeks ago, sitting outside a café in Barcelona with an espresso that went cold faster than it should have, watching the tourists and the boats sailing in the background, thinking, John, you would have loved this.

He never got there. Spain was on our bucket list for our next world trip plan, when my daughter turned eighteen. We used to peruse through Pinterest travel boards, read blogs, and lay out the maps we got from AAA across the kitchen table, drinking cheap Muscato wine and plotting routes we knew we would inevitably never stick to. Then life happened, or rather, death did, and next became never for our little family of three. Life seems to happen that way, doesn’t it? Life doesn’t always allow us to make the choice of what comes next, no matter how hard we try.

So, I did the only thing I felt was right. I booked a plane trip for my daughter and me to try to escape the overwhelm of grief. One flight became two, and then another, and another. I found solace in the seat of a plane or in the lobby of a hotel. Two-and-a-half years later, still grappling with this new life and trying to find myself through travel, I decided to book a pilgrimage to Spain. This trip, I took by myself; there was no daughter or friend in tow. It was just me sitting at this seaside café looking at a postcard I had planned to put in my travel journal. But, in that moment, the aloneness hit hard. I just wanted to pick up my phone and send him a text or call to tell him what I was experiencing, seeing, and doing. I flipped over the postcard and decided to write him a note, a postcard to heaven.

I bought it from a cramped shop that smelled like cork, linen, and time gone by. I told him about the freshly baked bread served at every meal. I told him how, after breakfast one morning, I took a leftover loaf that hadn’t been touched, wrapped it in flimsy plastic wrap, and shoved it into my cross-body hiking bag. During the long morning walks, I found myself hungry by hour two, and the 2:00 PM lunches felt like a lifetime away. A fellow pilgrim and I often joked about just how much we loved the bread, and when she saw I had one in my sack, we had a good laugh. I mentioned the way the light in Spain slows itself down in late afternoon, like honey thickening in a jar. And, I told him that had he been there, I would have saved him the window seat on the bus from Bilbao, the one with the better view. I signed it and then addressed it to nowhere, really.

Solo travel after loss… there’s nothing romantic about it, no matter what the movies suggest. Every beautiful thing you see hits double, beauty and ache, intricately woven together. You spot a piece of the coastline that knocks the wind out of you, and your first thought is to show your loved one. But that seat where they were supposed to be is empty, and there is no “someone” beside you. It’s just space pretending not to notice.

Still, despite the difficulty of forced solo travel, flying on a plane, eating dinner in the dining car of a train, or riding in the backseat of an Uber does something to grief. I think it gives it legs. It gives it motion, and the grief becomes transient instead of stagnant.

At home, sadness sits down at the kitchen table and refuses to leave. It seeps into the corners of your house. It shows up on the mug he always used or on the other half of the couch. It becomes part of the house's architecture, and it’s not something you can easily knock down and rebuild. But travel dismantles the architecture. You land somewhere your sorrow doesn’t yet recognize by smell or sound, and suddenly there’s oxygen again. Taking a deep breath feels a little easier and a little more refreshing.

Along the miles we traveled on those long, Spanish roads, the postcards became a ritual. One for nearly every destination, addressed to him but really written for both of us. I’d describe what he would have noticed, the food he would have enjoyed, and I told him about the quirky priest who kept us all entertained. I am pretty sure he would have enjoyed his company but would also have found him a little odd, something we would have laughed about in the days and months that followed.

Writing to him about my travels kept our conversations alive, even if those conversations were happening in the recesses of my mind. Once I started, I felt that I couldn’t stop. I was afraid that if I did, I would lose that one last thread of connection with him. Maybe that’s superstition, many of us in the first responder world are. But maybe it’s survival.

I thought back to Iceland. Somewhere along the southern coast, our guide had parked on the shoulder of a road that I could hardly pronounce the name of. The wind was howling like it was a living thing. I had scribbled a note in my journal about the way steam rose off the earth itself, how the whole landscape looked half-finished, raw, molten, and astonishing. I smiled when I thought about him in that moment, and wondered if he would have thought I was being dramatic when I wrote the word rebirth in the margin. Would he have said something about the metaphors, I wondered to myself?

I also thought back to Ireland. Hiking through the hills that were impossibly green, with the ocean just out of sight, I took a deep breath of the salty air. I picked up my camera to capture the light that exploded across the cliffs, and I completely lost my train of thought, if I even had one. Hands shaking, tears forming in my eyes, I tried to find words to explain the extraordinary beauty that is both a gift and a curse. How would I write this in my journal or in a text about how he would have captured that scene precisely and perfectly?

In the next postcard I wrote to him, I told him that this strange mix of ache, longing, and wonder keeps me company more than I ever expected. In the depths of my grief, it seems dangerous to feel that alive and that real. He would call it gratitude for a life well lived. We talked about gratitude often. It helped us deal with the magnitude of trauma and loss that we were exposed to in our careers.

There’s a theory I carry now: places remember people. The cobblestone road in a small European town remembers us arguing with Google Maps. Big Sur remembers an afternoon sky so blue it almost looked fake, and we wondered about how we got to be so lucky, like we knew we shouldn’t blink.

So, now, when I go somewhere new, I write him into it. The notes are short, simple conversations that sometimes lack complete sentences or correct word spelling. They are just a memory of a bygone moment that I would give anything to spend with him.

Postcards are small truths. There is not enough space for pretense or performance. There is only room for a few honest lines about being joyful and heartbroken in the same breath. The postcards don’t fix the hurt or take away the pain. They give a name to what hurts and what heals, both at once.

Now, in my living room, there’s a box that looks like a suitcase on the bookshelf, one that reminds me of travel days gone by and travel days still to come. I use it to hold these postcards. Spain. Ireland, Key Largo, and New York City. A box to be filled with constellations of where’s and when’s. These little notes aren’t substitutes for a conversation that I wish I could have; nothing could be. What they are, though, is proof. Proof that love still moves, still stamps its passport, still insists on coming along, even if it’s wearing the clothing of grief.

If you feel stuck somewhere inside your own private geography of grief, halfway between the life before and the life not yet built, too paralyzed by hard feelings to make that first hotel reservation, can I say this? Go anyway. Muster up the courage to make that first reservation. You aren’t going to outrun the grief (you can’t; it’s sneaky and owns a matching suitcase), but because the world is still unbearably, almost offensively beautiful despite the harsh reality of death. And the person you lost? I’d bet anything they’d be the one nudging you toward the gate, saying, “Go. Go see and experience it for both of us.”

Buy the postcard from the little rack by the counter that smells like ink and linen. Write the words that still burn in your chest. Address it somewhere the post office can’t find.

Then drop it in the box anyway.

Because somehow, the words still go somewhere. I really, truly believe that.

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