I Can Do Hard Things

I spent over 14 years cultivating a relationship with my husband and it took less than 5 seconds to decimate it completely.

If I’ve learned anything in the 12 weeks since his death, it’s that that old habits die hard. Those habits strive to live in split seconds of the day. Split seconds where your mind reacts before thinking and you’re left a little broken, having to remind yourself that those habits can no longer exist in the life you now have.

I notice every time that I slip and refer to John in the present tense, instead of the past tense. I inwardly cringe every time. I hate doing it in front of strangers, it makes me feel like I’m lying to them. John isn’t here anymore, he’s only in the past. 

I try catching myself before I speak the words “we” or “us”, forcing myself to acknowledge that I am no longer a part of either. There are no more “Cunninghams” or “Mr. and Mrs.” or couple activities. There is just Katharine Cunningham…neither a wife nor really a mother. Both of those institutions were so grievously ripped from me. 

I cannot tell you the amount of times that I have thought about texting John, I even used to reach for my phone over and over in those first few weeks. He was my very best friend, I told him absolutely everything about my day and my life. He honored it all, always willing to take the time for a call or text. He literally never complained that I texted him too much. Say what you want about technology, but I lived a life in constant communication with my husband, and I will never regret it. 

But he is not here to text anymore. No more phone calls or messages…just silence.

I have caught myself reaching for him in the middle of the night. John came to bed after I was asleep so often in the last few years. I would always reach out to him if I woke up to make sure he was there before falling back asleep. It fully wakes me up every time I find an empty space where he was supposed to be. Where he was always supposed to be. 

I remember, after my son Kimber died, that my body physically ached for his presence in my arms. They felt empty and broken without his weight in them. It reminded me of when people describe their experiences with “phantom limb”. It was supposed to be there, Kimber was supposed to be there. John was supposed to be here. I’ve been kissed, hugged, and loved for the past 14 years…and it stopped so unbearably quick. I’m not normally a hugger with anyone and physical touch is most definitely not my love language. But I loved it with John, he was the only one whose hug calmed me and made me feel safe. I have to remind myself that the absence of all of that is a permanent experience. It was supposed to always be a part of our marriage…but our marriage no longer exists.

There are things I know he would have loved, but they remain on store shelves.

There are stories that he would have laughed at but they remain untold.

There are secrets written in a journal rather than in a text.

There are thousands of unspoken “I love you”s.

Split seconds remind me of what I once had and what I tragically lost. 

But I do not have to live in those split seconds. 

I can choose to acknowledge them, grieve the loss of them, and move forward. I can make the minutes matter, the hours purposeful, and the days joyful. 

I have faced each obstacle and have told myself “I am strong and courageous. I can do hard things.” 

Those split seconds matter, because my life with John mattered. But those split seconds will eventually become just memories. And I know that new habits are already forming. But, those split seconds have taught me the importance of habits. They’ve taught me to choose to cultivate habits that matter, that mean something. 

Change your habits, keep them the same, develop new ones. Just make sure that they are worth cultivating. 

I am Katharine Cunningham.

I am a widow.

I can choose to have a wonderful life.

I am strong and courageous.

I can do hard things.