A House Full of You, A Heart Full of Grief

Last night was our last night in this house. This morning is the last time I’ll wake up here.

And I wake up with that memory again—the day we lost you. It hasn’t left me, not once. The image of you struggling to breathe is etched into me. I can still feel the urgency, trying to help you get dressed, trying to keep you calm, telling you to just focus on breathing. Then you stood up… and lost consciousness right there in the hallway outside our bedroom.

They carried you out the front door. I still see it. I still see you lying in the ambulance, and I remember standing in the driveway begging God—pleading—for Him to do something. Begging to go with you.

This house holds all of it.

It’s bittersweet to leave, but the truth is—it hasn’t felt like home without you. It hurts to stay. I see you everywhere. In the smallest details… the kitchen you designed, the brick we chose outside, your stool at the island where you’d sit and tell your terrible dad jokes. You’re in all of it.

And with that comes the constant reminder of how we lost you.

I know this decision won’t make sense to everyone. But unless you’ve lived this, you can’t really understand. The grief isn’t just in missing you—it’s in reliving that loss every single day in the place we built together… the place where everything changed.

Still, I can see God’s hand in what’s ahead. This new home—it’s been Him in every detail, every door opened. And I trust He’ll keep holding me, guiding me, carrying me forward… even without you here beside me.