The Presence That Remains

I once believed I could not find my way through life without you.

I was wrong.

Each day I am greeted by your face, your familiar smile, and I am filled again with awe — with gratitude for the presence that remains.

You took me in — wounded, scared, desperate.
You wrapped me in unconditional love and acceptance, generously sprinkled with joyful adventure.

You nourished me. Encouraged me. Taught me how to fly — how to soar.

I miss your sweet, sexy body.
I miss your laughter and that infectious smile.
And those eyes — oh, my goodness.

Your eyes, filled with love, follow me everywhere, reminding me that I am enough, that I belong, that I am loved and treasured.

When you first let go of your physical body, I was thrown into deep grief.
And fear. So much fear.

At first, I thought it was about money. I went from a steady income to none the moment you stopped breathing. There was a mortgage, electric bills, car payments — how would I buy food?

And yet, somehow, doors I’d never seen opened. Job offers appeared. Money flowed — enough to cover what was needed. Family and friends stood close, sometimes holding me up, often walking beside me.

Now I understand. It was never about the money. Nor was it about being alone.

Yes, I miss the comfort of your physical presence — and oh, those kisses — but you, as promised, are always here.

No, the real fear was this:
What if I can’t do this without you?

You paid the bills and balanced the checkbook — a luxury, not a necessity.
You shopped and cooked delicious, nourishing meals.
You kept the car tended — oil changed, tires rotated, gas tank full.

When our daughter left for college, you held me and gave me space for my tears.

I know how to do all of those things. I always did.

As lovely as they were, they are not what I miss.

What I miss is hearing you say, when life grew difficult,
“We will find a way through this.”

Can I, without you? Can I find a way through?

I see now that I had been unconscious of my own strength — of my ability to use my voice, to care for myself, to find my way through any situation. I had been holding my breath, waiting for permission to step forward.

All along, you were whispering, nudging,
You’ve got this.

Now, I breathe.
Now, I step mindfully into each moment.
Now, the courage you carried for me has become my own.

Yes, my voice trembles.
Yes, my hands shake.
Yes, the ego still asks, “Are you sure?”

And then there you are — holding me, breathing with me, walking beside me.

Thank you.

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This reflection lives alongside the larger body of work I’m shaping: Coming Home to Myself, a book in progress exploring embodiment, frequency, grief, sovereignty, and the quiet courage of belonging to oneself.