Blog
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Five Years Later, September Still Hurts
Five years ago, I rushed him to the hospital. I had no idea he would never come home.
September has never been just another month for me.
Every year, as September comes around, I find myself sitting in that pain again. Five years may have passed, but some memories don’t get smaller with time. Some moments remain just as vivid as they were the day they happened.
I still remember rushing him to the hospital.
I remember the fear, the uncertainty, and believing that we were going to get through whatever was happening. I never imagined that I was watching him leave for the last time.
I didn’t know that he wouldn’t come home.
That’s the part of grief people don’t always understand.
You don’t just grieve the person. You grieve the future you thought you were going to have with them. You grieve the conversations that will never happen, the ordinary days you will never get back, and all the moments you assumed were still waiting for you.
And five years later, I still sit in that pain every September.
I still cringe every time I have to walk into a hospital.
I still struggle with the thought of being in one myself. For years, I have avoided going to the hospital for my own care because walking through those doors brings me right back to that time—to the fear, the waiting, the uncertainty, and ultimately, the loss.
People sometimes think that five years means you should be “over it.”
But you don’t get over losing someone you love.
You learn to carry it.
You learn how to keep working, keep showing up, keep building, keep laughing, and keep living while carrying a piece of that loss with you.
And sometimes, when September comes, that weight feels a little heavier.
So as I approach five years, I’m not going to pretend that it doesn’t still hurt.
It does.
I still miss him.
I still think about that day.
I still wish I had known it was the last time.
Because if I had known, I would have held on longer. I would have said more. I would have memorized everything.
But I didn’t know.
None of us ever really do.
And maybe that’s the greatest lesson this loss has given me: don’t wait to tell people you love them. Don’t assume there will always be another conversation, another visit, another tomorrow.
Five years later, I am still here.
Still carrying the loss.
Still remembering.
Still healing in ways people cannot see.
And still grateful that I had the privilege of loving someone whose absence could leave such a permanent mark on my life.
September will always be the month that changed everything.
And I will always remember the day I took him to the hospital, never knowing I was taking him there for the last time.
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How I Started Rebuilding My Life, Confidence and Health After Loss
The First Days
Loss changes everything.
It changes the way you see the world, the way you see yourself, and sometimes even the way you move through an ordinary day. When I lost my partner, Todd, on December 2, 2021, life as I knew it changed in an instant.
Grief did not arrive neatly. It came in waves. Some days I could function, work, smile and take care of what needed to be done. Other days, simply getting through the day felt like an accomplishment.
For a long time, I was focused on surviving. I was not thinking about confidence, fitness, goals or becoming the best version of myself. I was learning how to live with an absence that could never truly be filled.
Eventually, I realized that rebuilding my life did not mean leaving Todd behind. It meant learning how to carry the love, memories and lessons forward while allowing myself to live again.
Starting Over Without Knowing Where to Begin
There was no single moment when everything suddenly became easier. Rebuilding happened slowly.
It started with small decisions.
Getting up when I did not feel like it. Going to work. Taking care of my responsibilities. Spending time with people who made me feel supported. Letting myself laugh without feeling guilty.
Grief can make you feel as though enjoying life is somehow wrong. I had to remind myself that moving forward did not erase the past. Happiness did not mean I had forgotten. It simply meant I was allowing more than pain to exist in my life.
I began asking myself a different question.
Instead of asking, “How do I get my old life back?” I started asking, “What can I build from here?”
That question changed everything.
Rebuilding My Confidence
Loss affected more than my emotions. It affected how I felt about myself.
When your life changes dramatically, your identity can change with it. I had spent so much time being strong, handling responsibilities and taking care of everyone else that I had stopped paying attention to what I needed.
Rebuilding my confidence began when I started keeping small promises to myself.
I began taking better care of my appearance, not because I believed I had to look perfect, but because it helped me feel more like myself. I started choosing clothes that made me feel good. I took more pictures, even when I felt self-conscious. I stopped waiting until I reached a certain weight or looked a certain way before allowing myself to feel attractive.
Confidence did not return because someone else gave it to me. It grew each time I showed up for myself.
I also learned that confidence after loss looks different. It is quieter, stronger and more honest. It comes from knowing that you have survived something you once believed might break you.
Opening My Heart Again
One of the hardest parts of rebuilding was learning to open my heart again.
After loss, it can feel safer to protect yourself from closeness. You may worry that loving, trusting or caring deeply for someone new somehow takes away from the person you lost.
I have learned that it does not.
Opening your heart again is not about replacement. No person can replace Todd, and no new relationship could ever erase the life, love and memories we shared.
It is about allowing love, friendship, companionship and connection to exist alongside grief.
I met Brian, and over time he has become someone I care deeply for. What we have is not about filling an empty space or replacing the past. It is about two people building trust, friendship and a meaningful connection in the present.
Brian has become an important part of my life, and allowing myself to care for him has been another step in learning that my heart can hold more than one kind of love.
There is room to honor the person you lost and still allow someone new to matter.
There is room for memories and new experiences.
There is room for grief and happiness.
Opening my heart again did not mean I stopped loving Todd. It meant I stopped believing that loss had to close me off from love forever.
Taking Back My Health
My health became another important part of rebuilding.
Like many women, I had put myself last for years. Stress, grief, hormones, work and everyday responsibilities all took a toll. I did not feel as strong, energized or comfortable in my body as I wanted to feel.
I knew I did not need another extreme plan. I needed habits I could actually maintain.
I started moving my body more consistently. I focused on strength training, walking, incline workouts and exercises that helped me feel toned and capable. I increased my protein, became more aware of my food choices and looked for realistic ways to support my energy and wellness.
The changes did not happen overnight. There were setbacks, weight fluctuations and days when motivation was low. But I kept returning to the promise I made to myself: I was not giving up on me.
For the first time in a long time, my health goals were not only about becoming smaller. They were about becoming stronger.
I wanted leaner arms, stronger legs, better energy and more confidence. Most importantly, I wanted to feel in control of my health again.
Learning That Progress Is Not Perfect
One of the biggest lessons I have learned is that healing is not a straight line.
Neither is fitness. Neither is confidence.
There are days when I feel strong and hopeful. There are also days when grief feels closer, motivation disappears or I question my progress.
I used to believe a setback meant I had failed. Now I understand that one hard day does not undo everything I have accomplished.
Progress means returning.
It means choosing yourself again after a difficult week. It means starting the workout even when you do not feel motivated. It means eating one meal that supports your goals instead of believing you have to wait until Monday.
The same is true for emotional healing. You do not have to be completely healed to begin living again.
Giving Myself Permission to Want More
At some point, I realized I still wanted things from life.
I wanted to feel healthy, beautiful and confident. I wanted to build something meaningful. I wanted friendship, connection and love. I wanted to connect with other women who were also entering a new chapter and wondering what came next.
That desire became part of the inspiration for The Ageless Journey.
This website is not about pretending life is perfect. It is about real life, real loss, real health goals and real transformation.
It is for women who have been through heartbreak, disappointment, grief, divorce, health changes or years of putting themselves last.
It is for the woman who looks in the mirror and knows she is ready for something different, even if she does not yet know exactly what that looks like.
What Rebuilding Looks Like for Me Today
Today, rebuilding looks like taking care of my body while also being kind to it.
It looks like setting goals without punishing myself.
It looks like honoring Todd’s memory while continuing to create a life that has purpose, friendship, love and happiness.
It looks like allowing Brian to matter to me without feeling that I am replacing anyone.
It looks like sharing my story honestly, including the parts that are still difficult.
I am still growing. I am still learning. I am still becoming.
But I am no longer only surviving.
I am building a life that reflects the woman I am now: stronger, wiser, more confident and more determined to make this chapter count.
Your Next Chapter Can Begin Small
Maybe you are reading this while going through a loss of your own. Maybe life has changed in a way you never expected. Maybe you have spent so much time caring for everyone else that you no longer recognize yourself.
You do not have to change everything today.
Start small.
Take a walk. Drink more water. Make the appointment. Put on the outfit that makes you feel beautiful. Write down one goal. Tell someone you are struggling. Allow yourself to laugh, connect and care again.
Open your heart to friendship, companionship and love—not as a replacement for what you lost, but as part of the life that is still waiting for you.
Rebuilding does not mean forgetting what happened.
It means deciding that what happened will not be the end of your story.
This is my next chapter.
And I am finally ready to live it.
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