When my husband and I talked about end-of-life wishes, we couldn’t have known how healing those conversations would become for me. Long before his cancer diagnosis, we had discussed the basics, his desire to be cremated and have his ashes scattered in the places he loved. What we didn’t discuss, but what those talks quietly allowed, was the grace of creating space for remembrance.
After he died, I made it my mission to carry out that wish, not just as a final act of love, but as a way to keep moving. I took one trip a month during the following year, visiting places we had once enjoyed together. Some trips were solo, quiet and reflective. Others were shared with family, a way of remembering together. I ended the year in Paris and Barcelona, ringing in a new decade with equal parts grief and gratitude.
Those journeys weren’t just about honoring my husband, they became part of my healing. Being physically present in places where we had laughed and lived allowed me to remember joy, not just sorrow.
The Often-Overlooked Role of Social Health
In that first year, and in the years since, I’ve come to understand just how vital our social health is to overall well-being. We often talk about physical, mental, and even spiritual health but social health deserves a seat at the table too.
Having a close network of friends and family helped me feel less alone, especially during those long days when grief felt like a fog I couldn’t quite walk through. Their presence was sometimes quiet, and sometimes practical. It reminded me that I was still tethered to life, to laughter, and to meaning.
Rebuilding with Purpose
As I slowly gathered the pieces of my life, I also began building something new. Volunteering became a lifeline, not just an activity to fill the hours, but a way to reconnect with purpose.
I joined PIVOT, a patient advocacy group that helps researchers see their work through the eyes of real people affected by cancer. I stepped into a leadership role at Gilda’s Club Kansas City, an organization I had once turned to during my own grief. Their mission, to support anyone impacted by cancer, felt deeply personal, and contributing to it brought renewed energy.
Then came something even deeper. I enrolled in training to become an end-of-life doula. I began volunteering at Solace House, a grief center that supports people of all ages. Eventually, I left my 30-year corporate career in healthcare systems and advisory to walk fully into this calling. I founded Marigold Path to help others navigate death, grief, and caregiving with compassion and clarity.
Relearning Joy
It may seem surprising to talk about joy in a story rooted in loss. But what I’ve learned is this: joy doesn’t erase grief. It doesn’t replace what was lost. It walks beside it. Purpose, connection, and ritual helped me make room for joy again. Not the carefree joy of before, but something richer, a joy that knows sorrow, and still says yes to life.
Relearning joy after loss isn’t a single act. It’s a series of choices: to show up, to connect, to make meaning. For me, that meant honoring my husband’s wishes, leaning into my community, and building a life that reflects both my grief and my growth.
If you’re walking through loss, know that joy can return. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But with time, support, and purpose—it will.
