When Half of You Is Gone

Lifestyle

Oct 15

It’s…

heartbreaking,
earth-shattering,
gut-wrenching,
and yet, none of those words even come close to describing the pain and the emptiness I feel.

At 42 years old, I never imagined I’d be living without my husband — the person I’ve been with for over half of my life. Dany was 46 when he passed. We had been together for 27 years. And the truth is, there are no words that can ever fully describe what it feels like to lose your forever person.

There’s a constant ache in my chest, like a physical pain that won’t go away. It’s the kind of pain that sits heavy in your gut — where you feel like you might throw up, but you can’t. Because it’s not the kind of pain your body can release. It’s deeper. It’s the pain of knowing that a piece of you is missing, and no matter what you do, it’s gone.

Every inch of our home reminds me of him. The Saturday mornings when we’d head to the farmers market and then to Costco for our weekly shopping. The little routines that used to feel so ordinary now feel like sacred memories. Driving past our favorite restaurants — the ones we went to so often they knew our order by heart — now brings tears instead of comfort.

Even the quiet moments sting. Sitting on the couch, trying to distract myself with TV, only to break down watching something as simple as a CPR scene. I’ll find myself crying uncontrollably, wondering what Dany was thinking during those eight minutes — if he was scared, if he was in pain, or if his life flashed before his eyes. Those are the questions that haunt me. The ones I’ll never have answers to.

My forever is gone. Our retirement plans, our travel dreams, raising our daughter together, the future we built in our hearts — all of it disappeared in an instant. I lost my best friend, my partner in everything, and the father to our daughter. And now, I’m left to navigate a world that feels completely different, while also trying to help Emma understand something no four-year-old ever should.

One night, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “So he’s gone forever? I’m not going to have a dad anymore?” And all I could say back was, “I’m not going to have a husband either, but he’ll always be in our hearts.”

She looked at our family photo on the wall and said, “We can’t take family pictures anymore because dad’s not here.” And in those moments, it’s like my heart shatters all over again. Her pain is different from mine, but it’s real. It’s deep. It’s the kind of loss that will shape her life, just as it’s changed mine forever.

People often say, “You’re not alone.” And while I know they mean it with love, the truth is — you really are. Yes, people are here for me. They pray for me, check in, offer support in every way possible — and I’m beyond grateful. But at the end of the day, when the world goes quiet and the house feels too big, it’s just me. It’s me facing the silence. It’s me feeling the emptiness. It’s me trying to hold everything together when all I want is to fall apart.

And yet — even in the midst of that, I know God is here. I know He’s the one giving me the strength to get out of bed, to take care of Emma, to keep breathing when it feels impossible. He’s given me an incredible amount of peace and endurance. But that doesn’t mean the pain is gone. It’s still there — raw, sharp, and physical.

I’ve come to realize that faith doesn’t erase the hurt. It simply helps you survive it.

Sometimes, people talk about grief as something you “get through.” But when you’ve lost the person who was part of your every day — the one who finished your sentences, knew your moods, and held your hand through life — it’s not something you move past. It becomes part of you.

I don’t know if the pain will ever fade, but I do know that Dany’s love hasn’t. It’s in Emma’s laughter. It’s in the way I still hear his voice when I make decisions or when I catch myself doing something he taught me. It’s in the memories that keep replaying in my mind, even when they hurt to remember.

I hold on to faith — even when it’s hard. I remind myself that God’s plans are often beyond what we can understand. That maybe love like ours doesn’t end when this life does — it just changes form. And one day, when my time here is done, I’ll get to see him again.

Until then, I’ll keep loving him through our daughter, through the life we built, and through the faith that reminds me that forever isn’t really over — it’s just waiting.