Dear ,

Someone asked me recently what it means to "move on" after losing someone you love.

It's a question I hear often in my work, usually asked with a mix of hope and guilt. Hope that the pain will eventually lessen. Guilt about wanting it to.

The truth is, "moving on" isn't really the right phrase. You don't move on from love. You don't move on from someone who shaped who you are.

You move forward. You learn to carry them with you in new ways. You discover that healing doesn't mean forgetting—it means finding ways to honour what was while still embracing what's possible.

The story of The Space You Left Behind continues below.

Dr H

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Slowly

Emma starts laughing again first. It happens gradually—a giggle at cartoons, then full belly laughs at the park. Kids are resilient, everyone says, like it's supposed to make me feel better. But watching her heal feels like betrayal and relief all tangled together.

I go back to work after two months. My coworkers treat me like I'm made of spun glass, speaking in soft voices and avoiding eye contact. But slowly, routine becomes a lifeline. Emails and deadlines and the blessed mundanity of office coffee that's always slightly burnt.

One evening, Emma climbs into my lap while I'm paying bills at the kitchen table—your kitchen table, where you used to spread out tax forms every April, muttering about deductions.

"Mommy," she says, "I think Daddy would want us to be happy."

And something inside my chest that's been clenched tight for months finally loosens, just a little.

Finding

I don't know when it happens exactly, but one day I realize I've been humming while I cook dinner. The same off-key melody you used to sing in the shower. Emma joins in, making up words about dinosaurs and ice cream, and we're both laughing and it doesn't feel like betrayal anymore. It feels like keeping you alive in the best way we can.

I start running again—something I gave up when you got sick, when every moment away from home felt stolen. The rhythm of my feet on pavement becomes meditation, becomes prayer, becomes the slow work of learning who I am when I'm not half of a pair.

Your favorite coffee mug sits in the dishwasher for six months before I can finally bring myself to use it. When I do, I fill it with tea instead—something new, something mine. It's a small act of defiance against the part of me that wanted to preserve everything exactly as you left it, like a museum to our life together.

To be continued.....