Two weeks ago, my husband passed away. I’ve hesitated to share this because, for a while, I had no words. But now, in the stillness of being alone, the quiet is helping me find my voice again.
I chose to spend a month in Scotland to heal after his death. I needed space. I needed time. And I wanted to be in a place where we once found joy and peace together. Scotland was our sanctuary, a place we loved and dreamed of returning to. But cancer had other plans. This trip is different—I brought my husband with me in spirit, and I will leave pieces of him in the places he never got to see. In a way, this is my pilgrimage.
For the past few days, I’ve sat in complete silence. The flood of texts, calls, and messages has slowed to a trickle, mostly from immediate family. No one tells you this part—after the funeral, the crowd thins. The presence of many becomes the presence of few. It’s not that people stop caring; they simply move forward, even though you can’t. The sun keeps rising, the world keeps turning, as if no one got the memo that the love of my life is gone. How dare life go on without him! But it does. It always does, with or without us.
When I first discovered my husband’s affair, I was surrounded by family and friends. They checked on me, invited me for coffee, asked me to join them on walks. I felt loved and supported, even as I chose to reconcile with him. They worried about me, but they respected my decision. Yet, as the drama faded, so did the invitations. Life resumed for them, and they assumed I was “okay.”
But I wasn’t okay then, and I’m not okay now. It’s strange how this grief mirrors the pain of affair recovery. I know my loved ones haven’t abandoned me, but it feels that way sometimes. Part of me wants to shout my heartbreak into the void of social media every day, just to feel seen, to receive virtual hugs and words of comfort. But I don’t. I’m too proud to seem needy, too stubborn to ask for pity.
Today, though, as I sit in this small cottage overlooking Loch Torriden in the Scottish Highlands, I’ve begun to hear my own voice for the first time in months. For the past year, my thoughts have been consumed by my husband—his health, his treatments, his needs. Before that, during affair recovery, my mind was filled with fear—fear of losing him, fear of betrayal. In both seasons, I lived in the shadow of loss. And now, my worst fear has come true. He’s gone. Yet here I am. Still standing. Still breathing. And I know, deep down, I’m going to be okay.
What I’ve realized is this: healing won’t come from others constantly checking on me. It will come from within. From the strength, courage, and faith I already possess—and from the parts of me that are still emerging. I’m transforming, evolving, becoming a woman I haven’t yet met. And for the first time in a long time, I’m curious about her. I’m looking forward to meeting her.
This journey is mine to walk. It’s my strength, my resilience, my faith that will carry me forward. Not the well-meaning words of friends or family, though I cherish them. Just me. And my faith in God, because I know much of this strength comes from a power greater than myself.
I’m still navigating this grief, but today, I feel a little lighter. I think back to the Monica of 2011, who stumbled through each day in fight-or-flight mode, terrified her husband would leave her for someone else. That Monica was too restless, too afraid, to hear her own voice. But the Monica who healed from affair recovery, and the Monica writing this now, took the time to listen. I hope you’ll take that time, too. Silence can be deafening, especially for those of us with busy minds or extroverted hearts. But it’s in the quiet that we find our voices. We all need that.
My prayer for you is that you embrace the quiet, even if it comes from being alone. Use it. Let it help you hear your own voice. Whatever you’re facing may feel overwhelming, but it’s not insurmountable. Listen to what’s already inside you. Trust it. Take one step, then another. I’m doing it. You can, too.
With love,
Coach Monica
xoxo
Thankyou for sharing this with us Monica 🤍
Thank you for sharing this Monica. My heart goes out to you and your family 💖
At 25 years old, I watched my mama grieve loss of my dad, her best friend and the love of her since her youth. She was only 50 when he passed of mesothieloma. I remember the wail that broke forth from her lips as she stood beside his casket, it was gutteral. Wild and raw. I know a part of her died with him and I think there was a part of her that was never the same. I will never forget that moment. Her grief was profound. She passed two short years later due to her own health issues. I can’t even begin to grasp the grief you are feeling with the loss of your husband. However, your comparison of how it feels similar to the grief and loss you felt in the aftermath of his affair, it takes me back to my own experience with my husband’s affairs and that rugged, unknown territory and lonely grief when the silence was deafening. I found myself in that strange space and I found strength and resilience I never knew I had. You were a lifeline to me in that season. I have no doubt that you will emerge with that new version of yourself and a deeper faith in the God of all comfort and all hope. You are much loved and appreciated.