The Porch is Still Here - and I Saved You a Chair

You found the porch.

Maybe you weren’t even looking for it. Maybe you wandered here on the kind of day that sneaks up and knocks the wind out of you. Or maybe you knew exactly what you were searching for—a soft place to land. Either way, I’m glad you’re here.

This space was built for you.

I was ten when I found my older brother after he died by suicide. My world cracked in half before I was old enough to understand what grief even was. That early heartbreak became the lens through which I saw the world—and it’s why, decades later, when I lost my husband, I didn’t want someone handing me a pamphlet on the stages of grief. I wanted someone to sit with me in the wreckage.

That’s what this porch is.

It’s not a fix-it space. It’s not a tidy three-step plan. It’s a place for real, raw, heart-wide-open conversations. Sometimes we’ll cry here. Sometimes we’ll belly laugh over something that would make other people uncomfortable. Sometimes we’ll just sit in the silence and let it be holy.

I believe in Jesus, and you’ll see faith show up here—but gently, like a friend handing you a warm cup of something and saying, “No pressure. Just rest.” I also believe in saying the hard things out loud, in not pretending, and in calling out the well-meaning nonsense people say when they don’t know what else to do with your pain.

This porch? It’s where faith, grief, and real life have an honest conversation—no sugar-coating required. You can listen, read, or do both while hiding in your closet, walking the dog, or crying in the car. No judgment.

And now, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to tell you a little bit about what I’ve learned.

Let’s Call It What It Is

So here’s what nobody warned me about when my husband died.

It wasn’t the casseroles (though holy chicken pickles, there were a lot of casseroles). It wasn’t the sympathy cards that said things like “he’s in a better place now” (thanks, Karen, I’ll be sure to let him know you said that). It wasn’t even the well-meaning relatives who kept asking if I was “doing okay” like grief operates on some kind of customer satisfaction survey.

No, the thing that absolutely broke my brain was how everyone suddenly forgot my husband’s name.

Like, literally forgot it. As if saying “Dale” out loud might accidentally summon a grief demon or cause me to spontaneously combust right there in the produce section.

Instead, I got a lot of creative alternatives: “Your… you know…” (accompanied by meaningful eyebrow raises) “He would have… well…” (gestures vaguely at the sky) “Back when you were…” (uncomfortable throat clearing) “…married.”

I’m sorry, WHAT? Back when I was married? Earthling, I’m still married. Death doesn’t come with divorce papers. I didn’t suddenly become un-married just because my husband had the audacity to die on me.

But apparently, saying his actual name had become some kind of social taboo, like we were all playing the world’s most depressing game of Voldemort.

So there I was, six months into this nightmare, standing in line at Target behind a woman buying the same brand of deodorant Dale used to use, and when she made small talk about how her husband loved that scent, I damn near started crying right there next to the ChapStick display.

Not because I was sad (okay, I was sad), but because someone had said the word “husband” like it was just a normal word instead of a landmine that might explode if handled incorrectly.

That’s when it hit me: everyone was so busy trying to protect me from my own grief that they were accidentally erasing the person I was grieving.

And that, my friend, was a special kind of bullsmoosh I wasn’t prepared for.

Here’s What I Learned About Grief (The Hard Way)

Nobody knows what they’re doing. Not the grief counselors with their stages and timelines. Not the friends with their helpful suggestions about “getting back out there.” Not the family members who think you should be “better” by now because it’s been six whole months.

Everyone’s uncomfortable with death. Which means they’re uncomfortable with you, the walking reminder that bad things happen to good people and life is fragile and unpredictable and terrifying.

Most grief advice is garbage. Written by people who’ve never had to figure out what to do with a closet full of someone else’s clothes or how to sleep in a bed that suddenly feels the size of a football field.

You’re going to get really good at nodding politely while people say stupid things. Things like “everything happens for a reason” and “God needed another angel” and “at least he’s not suffering anymore.” You’ll smile and say thank you because what else are you supposed to do? But inside, you’ll be composing increasingly creative responses that you’ll never actually say out loud.

Grief makes people weird. They’ll either avoid you completely (because grief might be contagious) or they’ll suddenly become grief experts with opinions about how you should be handling everything from his tools to your dating timeline.

The “stages of grief” are a myth. You don’t graduate from denial to anger to bargaining like you’re completing some kind of emotional obstacle course. You bounce around between all of them, sometimes in the same day, sometimes in the same hour, sometimes while standing in line at the grocery store wondering why you’re crying over pasta sauce.

But here’s the thing I wish someone had told me: all of this is normal.

The crying at inappropriate times? Normal. The anger at people who still have their person? Normal. The bone-deep exhaustion that makes getting dressed feel like climbing Everest? So incredibly normal. The way you still reach for your phone to text him something funny? Normal. The fact that you sometimes forget he’s gone and set the table for two? Also normal.

What The Porch Is Really About

This space? It’s for all the stuff nobody else wants to talk about.

It’s for the days when you’re so tired of people asking how you’re doing that you consider making business cards that say “Still sad, thanks for asking.” It’s for the moments when you want to scream at married couples in restaurants who are ignoring each other because don’t they know how lucky they are? It’s for the nights when you talk to his picture like he can hear you, and maybe he can, and maybe that’s not crazy at all. It’s for the realization that you’re not the same person you were before, and you’re not sure who you’re becoming, but you’re pretty sure she’s stronger than you thought she’d be.

It’s for learning that healing doesn’t mean “getting over it.” It means learning to carry it differently. It’s for discovering that you can be grateful for the love you had and absolutely furious that it ended too soon, and both of those things can be true at the same time.

It’s for the radical idea that your grief is yours to do with what you want. That there’s no timeline, no right way, no graduation ceremony where you get a certificate declaring you’re “done” with missing someone.

And it’s for saying his name out loud, as many times as you want, whenever you want, because love doesn’t disappear just because someone does.

So pull up a chair, Earthling. The porch has room for all of it—the mess, the beauty, the rage, the love, the days when you feel like you’re losing your mind, and the days when you realize you’re actually finding yourself.

We’re going to talk about the stuff that matters. The real stuff. The stuff that actually helps.

And we’re going to say their names. All of them. As much as we want.

Because that’s what love looks like when it doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

Welcome to the porch. You belong here.

With love from the porch,
Ro