After logging out of the Wasteland today to deal with the glitchy mess that is real life (yes even life has as many weird resets as Fallout76), I started thinking again about the weird ways grief works. Specifically, my own particular flavor of widowhood and how it stacks up against the experiences of others. I know a handful of fellow widows now—some from support groups, others just by shared tragedy—and it’s clear that while grief binds us, it also isolates. The experience is shared, but the details? Completely bespoke.

We all respond to the shift death brings, but that shift looks wildly different depending on the path you were on when the world tilted. For me, the grief wasn’t just about loss—it was about the total derailment of the life I was trying to reclaim. I’d started to imagine a post-marriage version of my life, something more tailored to me than to us. I wasn’t planning on tragedy—I was planning on freedom.

But then, his choice made a choice for me. I walked into the aftermath of his suicide, and just like that, Plan A went out the window. What followed wasn’t a path—it was a scramble. A panicked execution of Plan B, which didn’t exist until it had to. I became the spouse responsible for everything, all while people looked at me sideways because I wasn’t reacting how they expected a widow to react. Even the detectives seemed baffled, as if my lack of visible devastation made me a suspect. (It didn’t help that the last thing he saw from me was probably the look of someone barely holding it together.)

Do I miss him? Yes and no. Yes, because I saw the pain his death caused his family. His youngest brother wrote, “I wish you had met your nephews,” on one of the memorial posters. That still guts me. Watching his parents break down during the ash scattering ceremony—that hit me hard. And yet, I also felt relief. That awful relief you’re not supposed to admit to. I felt guilty for that, and no amount of therapy could make that feeling entirely go away.

Grieving is strange enough without having to justify it constantly, but that’s what I did. Still do. I kept hoping someone would understand, that people would come back around, that my social life might reboot. But people don’t know what to say, so they say nothing. They give space, and that space becomes permanent. My name drops off the invite list. It’s awkward. They don’t know how to handle grief, let alone a grieving person who’s been raw, angry, messy, and at times an absolute nightmare to be around.

I don’t blame them. I really don’t. The last few years were rough to witness. Add five strokes to the pile and it’s no wonder I went quiet. I couldn’t physically or emotionally show up. Only now am I crawling back into some semblance of being social.

So let me say this plainly: to anyone I pushed away, frightened, annoyed, or drove to silence—I’m sorry. Truly. I’ve stayed sober for 18 months. I’m not spiraling anymore. I know I made mistakes, and I know some bridges burned hard. If you’re a former colleague or friend who just can’t see your way back to reconnecting, I get it. I really do.

But I’m still here. Different. Wiser. Tired, but trying.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Wasteland to explore. Be the person your dog thinks you are—and if you’re lucky, the one your mom hoped for, too.