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Three years ago today, my husband Colin was killed in a cycling accident in South Minneapolis on his way home from work. It happened just blocks from our house as I was getting dinner ready (tacos) and was going to surprise him with an apple pie I made earlier that day. THREAD
This is Colin. He was the life of the party. He was an avid brewer (both home and professional). He hated sports but loved cycling. He was such a talented video editor that Adobe hired him to find bugs in their software. We got engaged just 6 weeks after we met. 2/
I’ll spare you details, but I knew he was dead before I knew he was dead. My son and I went to the scene and when I was told it was him, I screamed so loud I think all of MPLS heard me. I can’t even talk about my son’s face when I told him the news. Here’s Colin and our son. 3/
My life as I knew it changed in an instant. My future as I imagined was stolen. Grief changes your brain chemistry. It changes how you think, how you interact with others, how you work. It literally changes every single thing about your life. Think about that for a moment. 4/
Three years later, my life is good by all other measures. My son and I are healthy. We laugh a lot. I got remarried. People probably see me — I’m generally a happy person — and think, “wow, she’s so gotten through it.” LOL. 5/
You don’t “get through it.” You don’t “move on.” I carry this load every minute of every day and I hate it. I’m an over-achiever by nature and you don’t over-achieve at grief. I can’t “beat it.” Trust me, I’ve tried. 6/
Sometimes I’m angry. I see happy couples walking down the street and get jealous Colin was taken from me. Why couldn’t it be one of them instead? What did we do to deserve this? I look at them and wonder who will die first. This part of grief is real and it sucks. 7/
But now understand empathy better than most. I am more understanding. I do more things in the name of kindness — just because I want to. I guess that’s one of the few plus sides of going through some shit. 8/
At the same time, I don’t know who I am now. Those of you who knew me before will attest that I’m a different person. Not good or bad, just different. Former Rachel seems like a stranger. I’m not quite sure who new Rachel is yet. But she seems cool. 9/
The things that bother me today, three years later, is the fact I have to deal with this for the rest of my life. It never goes away. My son has to grow up without his father. I hate that for him. 10/
I also think about Colin’s friends. People always think about me, my son, Colin’s brother and parents. But what about all his friends? I hate their grief too. They also lost a very special person in their lives. Nobody talks about that. 11/
I hate the things some people say. “It was God’s plan.” “He’s in a better place.” At his funeral ,someone told me I was still young & beautiful so I’d find love again. I don’t care if you really believe these things, but THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU ARE SAYING. 12/
I hate that I will eventually forget memories. Little inside jokes. The way he smelled, the sound of his laugh, what his hands looked and felt like. I’m crying typing this because every moment that goes by gets me further away from him. 13/
Over the past 3 years, I’ve had more support from actual strangers than most of my family. Sure, I have some very supportive family members, but many were done after the funeral. Ask any widow about this and they’ll tell you the same story. DO BETTER, PEOPLE. 14/
You know who showed up? Colin’s friends. I can count on any of them if I ever need anything. They were all supportive of Matt when we got together. I’m having them over today to toast to Colin’s memory with some of his beer I still have in my basement. They are my people. 15/
If you are also grieving and are new to this world, I’m sorry you’re here. But I have some promises for you. 16/
I promise that there will come a time when you won’t always lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling and crying until you can’t breathe. 17/
I promise the death of your person won’t be the first thing you think about when you wake up in the morning or when you go to sleep at night. 18/
I promise that someday you’ll finally be ready to throw your person’s hot sauce/shampoo/toothbrush/whatever away. And if you’re not there yet, that’s OK, too. 19/
I promise there will come a day when you can say their name and tell a story about them without tears streaming down your face. You’ll laugh again. And even have good days. 20/
To those who have reached out and supported me in this journey—THANK YOU. Be kind to one another. Practice empathy. Tell your people you love them. Because at some point, every single person you know will die and you have no idea when that day will come. END.
Just wanted to jump in here and thank all of you who read, shared and commented on this thread. I feel so overwhelmed with support, you have no idea. I’ve tried to read every comment, DM, but just can’t keep up. It’s clear there’s a lot of grief out there and know I see you. 
