“Living On”
I first read this phrase in an article in Magnolia Journal in the fall of 2020, about fourteen months after my husband died suddenly from an infection. The woman writing the article was sharing her story of widowhood — how she was learning to manage life and raise her children on her own. She explained that she was “living on,” and that phrase has stayed with me ever since.
After Alan died in August of 2019, I felt shell-shocked. I am a piano teacher, and I had thirty-five students preparing to begin the fall semester. I postponed lessons for three and a half weeks so my family — our six adult children, their spouses, our six grandchildren — and I could bury my husband, celebrate his life, and begin settling into some kind of routine before I returned to teaching. Deep in my heart, I believed that, for reasons I could not yet understand, it was time for Alan’s life to end. But I also believed God still had purpose for my life to continue.
About three months after Alan died, my friend Brenda, who had been widowed for many years, came to visit. She said something I have never forgotten:
“Carrie, you are now in your third chapter of life. The first chapter was before Alan, the second was with Alan, and now the third is after Alan.”
At the time, I had no idea how to live the “after Alan” chapter. But I also knew I had no choice. This was my life now, and it would continue whether I felt ready or not.
Each day I pushed through the long hours of teaching, the endless paperwork after his death, and the decisions I had always expected we would make together. Just two months before Alan died, we had decided to retire to Colorado to be near one of our daughters and her family. I chose to continue with those plans and moved from California to Colorado in September of 2020.
After arriving in Colorado, I finally had space to breathe. It was the middle of COVID, so there was little to do except settle into my new home and slowly make it my own. Looking back, it feels as though God was gently saying, “Now it is time to stop and heal.”
I remember sitting at my newly acquired kitchen table reading that Magnolia Journal article. The phrase “living on” struck me deeply. I thought, Yes. That is exactly what I am doing — and what I want to do.
I was not “moving on.” This was not a high school break-up that I was just going to move on from and get over quickly. Alan was my husband, my partner, my confidant, the father of our six children, my greatest supporter. I would never move on from loving him. But I could live on.
Recently, I read Getting to the Other Side of Grief by Susan J. Zonnebelt-Smeenge and Robert C. De Vries, both of whom lost their spouses. I highly recommend this book to widows, no matter how long it has been since their loss. The authors make a hopeful case that it is possible not only to survive grief, but eventually to step into a meaningful new chapter of life.
They discuss several practical ways of moving forward — or “living on” — and three especially resonated with me.
One is the removal of the wedding ring. I know this is deeply personal. For me, it happened in June of 2025, nearly six years after Alan’s death. What had once brought comfort and reassurance had gradually begun to bring sadness each time I put it on. One day, I simply left it in my jewelry box, and I have not worn it since.
Another step is sorting through your husband’s belongings and memorabilia. Before moving to Colorado, I had already cleaned out Alan’s closet and office with the help of my sons. But I brought with me three boxes of keepsakes: yearbooks, scrapbooks, baby books, trophies, Boy Scout awards, church certificates, work recognitions, and memorabilia from his volunteer work.
Recently, I unpacked all of it. I photographed each item and created a photo book filled with both the memorabilia and pictures of Alan throughout his life. I plan to give copies to each of our children, to Alan’s parents, and keep one for myself. I also invited my children and grandchildren to choose any items they wished to keep. The remaining items were donated, shared, or discarded.
The final step the authors describe is saying an official goodbye to your spouse. I have not fully done that yet, but I sense that this photo book may become part of my goodbye. After sharing it with those who loved Alan most, I think I will finally be emotionally ready.
Living on. There is still life — even a beautiful life — waiting within this new chapter for both you and me. It is certainly a journey. But we are still here: living, breathing, loving. And I believe we can still find joy and peace as we slowly make our way to the other side of grief.
Written by Carrie Cummings
Carrie Cummings, author