A dear friend made a homemade tomato sauce for us, a kind gesture to ease the weight of everyday meal-making, offered out of pure love.

Everything that comes out of that friend’s kitchen is so delicious, it could easily rival a chef’s. So a few days later, I was excited to use it. I set the water to boil, dropped in the pasta, and set the timer. Everything was on track, until I tried to open the jar.

My Gab, my beautiful sweet big boy, is now in high school. Or as he insists on correcting me, “middle school, Mom.” That’s what they call it here, but for this mamá gallina, it’s all the same thing, and honestly, it feels way too soon.

They all go to the same building, they ride the same bus. And let me pause here: it’s not even a yellow school bus, it’s the city bus. That revelation alone gave me another heart-attack moment.

Yes, I know he’s growing too fast. Back in Panama, he was in grade 5. Then we moved here, he jumped to grade 6, and just a few months later—boom—he’s in grade 7, in the “other school,” the “other building,” the high school one. See my point?

But that’s not really why I’m writing this.

I’m not alone in this pain, in this grief. And yet, that’s the cruelest part. The hardest thing I have ever done, the hardest mission I’ve had in this life, was to come home and tell my beautiful, perfect, happy boys that their dad had passed away.

Today I had some time to myself. I opened Netflix, hoping to find a light, silly romantic comedy to watch. I stumbled upon My Oxford Year, starring Sofia Carson, it had been showing up on my feed a lot lately. So I gave it a try. I had no idea what I was walking into.

We live in a world that tells us we must always be happy. People often say to me, “You will be happy again,” or “All I want is for you to be happy again.” I know these words come from love and kind intentions. Still, happiness is painted as the ultimate goal, something to chase, measure, and cling to at all costs.

But what if happiness isn’t the point? What if there is something deeper, quieter, and far more lasting?

In Spanish, there’s a phrase that has been echoing in my heart: permitir ser, allowing yourself to be. It is in this allowing that we find what I can only call inner peace.

Two labels that don’t define me. Yes, my husband passed away, and by definition that makes me a “widow,” but that word carries assumptions that don’t reflect my reality.

Being a widow doesn’t make me “single,” and it certainly doesn’t mean I’m searching for a partner. Sometimes I notice the looks, the polite distance, the awkward comments, and honestly, I find them both disrespectful and a little funny. To any woman who feels uneasy around me, I say this with kindness and clarity: you don’t need to be afraid of me.

In Spanish, there is a saying: “El que obra bien le va bien.”

A simple translation would be: “To those who do good, good things will come.”

At first glance, someone might look at my life and think: “But how can this be true? Isn’t your husband dying the worst thing that could happen?

Grief is something we all face at some point in life, whether it’s the loss of a parent, grandparent, friend, or anyone we hold close.

Yesterday, Charlie looked up at me and asked: “Mom, are there more people alive or dead?”

I paused and said,“There must be more people who have died, think of everyone who has ever lived.” But then I added, “Let’s look it up together.”

Here’s what we found:

Keep showing up, even when your soul feels like it has no strength.

Training every day is not easy. I love to work out, but that doesn’t mean I wake up motivated each morning. There are days when the weight of life feels heavy, when grief or exhaustion makes even putting on my leggings feel like a battle.

When I first started sharing my feelings, posting on my personal Instagram about my journey, I didn’t expect much. At the time, my account was private. I was protective about who I let in, keeping it close to family and friends who I knew held positive thoughts for me and my children.

But then something happened.

My husband passed away, yes. His body is no longer with us. We can’t see him or hold him the way we used to. But his essence, his love, and everything he gave us remain untouched.

My love for him is infinite. So is my admiration, my pride, and my devotion. I feel him here with me, in my heart, in our children, in our home, in us.

Not really, but when we were moving to Canada, that’s what I told the kids.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t lie. They knew we were moving to Canada. But I wanted to set them up for success, to plant in their minds the idea that we were embarking on an adventure. I wanted their expectations to be that we’d arrive in a place almost entirely covered in ice.

Yes, you are alive. Yes, you are breathing. But it doesn’t feel like it. You keep waking up; you keep existing in this lifetime. Day after day, you move through what life asks of you, fulfilling the promise to stay alive.

Life is too short to hold back.

Sean knew this better than anyone. He didn’t wait for the perfect moment or for life to fall neatly into place. He lived all in, fully, deeply, freely. And because of that, he left behind more than memories. He left lessons, etched into the way he loved and the way he gave.

Meeting you, having you, and loving you has been my greatest blessing, my biggest pride, and joy. How incredibly lucky I am to be your wife, to call you my husband. You showed me that true, infinite love exists—love that can be touched.