Lessons of turning tragedy into triumph 

from a military widow

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I don't want to.

I’m anxious.


Not the wake up on Christmas morning to open presents, but the pit in my stomach, I just broke down in tears at the dentist office anxious. Our flight to Oahu leaves at 1030AM tomorrow and I’m terrified at the thought of getting on it. I don’t want to. I don’t want to go back to the island. I don’t want to confront the sadness, the piece of my heart I left there. I don’t want to get off the airplane and feel the humid Hawaiian air hit my face. I don’t want to think of landing there on August 10, 2017 full of hope and excitement knowing this was going to be our home for the next three years. I don't want to think of Brian's dive locker setup in our garage. I don't want to think of our afternoons spent at Dog Beach, or the time Brian and Izzy both got stung by jellyfish at Bellow's. I don’t want to think about the last photo taken of Izzy, Hudson and me, pregnant with Adeline as we prepared to leave the island, heartbroken and bound for Boise on June 28, 2018. We didn’t even make it a full year. I don’t want to drive past our house, I don’t want to close my eyes and see his smile because then I’ll hear his laugh and my heart will somehow break a little bit more. I just don’t want to. I don’t want it to have been a year. I don’t want to never see him again. I don’t want his kids to not wrap their arms around him and laugh, or cry. I don't want to see the excitement in everyone's eyes upon landing in paradise, while tears well up in my own. I don’t want to know this has been real.


But it has. And I’m going to.




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