When Grief Hits Hard: Missing My Best Friend, My Partner, My Q

This evening grief has me feeling all sorts of heavy.

There’s something about the changing of the seasons that seems to stir up all the emotions I try so hard to tuck away. The air turns crisp, the light shifts, and suddenly I find myself right back in that familiar ache — missing my husband, my best friend, my person.

Tonight, I found myself cleaning out the kitchen, trying to make sense of life one drawer at a time. I guess that’s my coping mechanism — I distract. I scrub, I organize, I rearrange, because somehow keeping my hands busy helps me hold my heart together. But grief has this sneaky way of finding me, even in the simplest moments. And tonight, it caught up to me good.

Life can be so hard sometimes. I’ve been juggling so many little things lately, trying to keep everything going — the kids, the house, the work, the to-dos — and yet, there’s this quiet part of me that’s just tired. Tired of pretending I’m strong when all I really want is one more evening with him standing around the island, talking about our day.

I’ve been digging for the hidden blessings in it all, reminding myself that even in the pain, there’s purpose. But tonight, my heart just needed to feel.

The song that broke me

As I worked my way through the kitchen, I turned on some music — just trying to keep my mind occupied. Then, out of nowhere, “Don’t Care” by Red Clay Strays came on.

And just like that, I was a blubbering mess.

You know those moments when grief doesn’t just knock softly — it barrels through the door and sits right on your chest? It is just so heavy…you can hardly breath. That was me tonight. The first few notes played, and it was like time stopped. Every lyric seemed to reach right into the rawest part of my heart, pulling out the memories I try to guard so carefully.

Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face, and I realized what I really needed wasn’t to keep cleaning — it was to let it all out. So I shut the door, ran a warm bubble bath, turned the lights down, lit a candle, and sank into the quiet. The kind of quiet where you can just be…

 

The photo I’ll never forget

As the song played in my head, I thought of a moment that’s been etched into my heart since the night before Q’s sudden passing.

We didn’t know, of course. None of us could have. But sometimes, when I look back, I wonder if maybe — somehow — he did.

That evening, he was volunteering at one of Fisher’s track meets. He loved being out there cheering for the kids, helping however he could. He had that big-brimmed sun hat on — the one that always made me laugh — and his usual grin. But that night, something special happened.

He motioned real big to Ella, waving his arms and saying, “Hey, take my picture!” He struck this goofy little pose, head tilted off to the side, almost like he was looking off into the distance — into wonder.

At the time, it just felt like one of his silly Q moments — the kind that made us all laugh. He was wearing a T-shirt that said:

“I'm on a one-way road to glory and I'll leave all my troubles behind.”

None of us thought twice about it. It was just Dad being Dad — playful, full of life, soaking in the moment. But now… now it feels different.

Because that photo was taken the night before everything changed.

The night before heaven gained my husband, and our world lost the man who made it all make sense.

It’s like he knew

I think about that moment often. The way he smiled. The way he insisted Ella take that picture. The way he looked just slightly off into the distance — peaceful, almost like he could see something the rest of us couldn’t.

It’s like he knew.

Just like the lyrics on his shirt said — “I'm on a one-way road to glory, and I'll leave all my troubles behind.”

And he did.

On that day — our worst day — it became his best.

As hard as it is to wrap my heart around that truth, I hold onto it. Because I know that he did leave all his troubles behind that day. The worries, the pain, the weight of this world — all gone. He’s home now. Whole. Free.

But oh, how I ache.

Homesick for a home I can’t return to

Grief, I’ve learned, isn’t just sadness. It’s homesickness.

It’s missing your person so deeply that no matter where you go, you feel misplaced — like the world is a little less bright, a little less home.

Because Q wasn’t just part of my home… he was my home.

Every bit of laughter, every shared glance across the room, every quiet coffee morning before the day began — that was home to me. And now, even though I still have our house, our memories, our family — that sense of home feels forever changed.

There’s a quote I read once that said, “Grief is love with nowhere to go.”

And that’s exactly it. Every bit of love I have for him still lives inside me — it just doesn’t have the same place to land anymore.

Some days, I find comfort knowing that love doesn’t die. It simply changes form. It becomes the strength that carries me through, the lessons he left behind, the way I love our kids fiercely — because I know how deeply he loved them.

Other days, though… I just miss him. I miss his laugh. His steady presence. His way of making everything feel like it was going to be okay.

Carrying on his legacy

Even through the tears, I know this: I will spend the rest of my life carrying on Q’s legacy.

He lived with such boldness, faith, and purpose. He showed our kids what it meant to work hard, love big, and laugh often. He was the first to step up, the last to leave, and the one who always made sure everyone else was taken care of.

He loved me so well — and because of that love, I’ll spend my life sharing it forward.

I want our kids to always know just how much they meant to him. How proud he was of each of them. How his eyes would light up whenever he talked about them. I want them to remember his laugh, his grit, his determination to share the love of the Lord, his quiet strength — and to feel his presence in the ways he continues to show up for us.

Sometimes it’s in a song, sometimes in a sunset, sometimes in a simple moment that feels too perfect to be coincidence.

Those are the hidden blessings I keep digging for.

Finding peace in the ache

Tonight, as I sat in that bubble bath, the candlelight flickering against the walls, I let the tears fall. I talked to him — just like I always do.

I told him about the kids, about the little everyday things he’d find funny, about how I’m trying my best to keep it all together. I told him I miss him like crazy.

And I thanked God for the years we had — even if it wasn’t nearly long enough.

Because when you’ve loved someone that deeply, the ache never truly goes away. But I believe the ache is proof that love was real — and that someday, it will be whole again.

Until that sweet day

Q, you have gone, but your memory remains in everything. In our kids’ laughter. In the music that fills this house. In the way I can still feel your presence when I close my eyes.

I know I’ll see you again someday — in the glory of heaven where there’s no more pain, no more tears, no more goodbyes. But today, my entire being aches for you.

It’s truly the worst homesick feeling ever — homesick for a home I can never return to.

Because you were my home.

Until that sweet day when we meet again, I’ll keep going — carrying your love forward, sharing your story, and finding those hidden blessings even in the hardest days.

I’ll keep reclaiming the table, building memories with our kids, laughing through tears, and clinging to faith — because I know that’s exactly what you’d want me to do.

Miss you like crazy, Q.
Forever and always… til I see you again.
❤️

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