Eight.

It’s been eight months. Eight months since that phone call changed my whole world.

It’s been eight months and my heart continues to break today, as it has every day. I keep waiting for the breaking to stop and the healing to start. I keep waiting for it to get easier, just a little bit easier. But it doesn’t. It hasn’t.

And it probably won’t.

Or will it?

Yes, and no. In all my years dealing with various forms of grief – this isn’t my first rodeo, after all – I’ve told people time and time again:

It doesn’t get easier. It just gets different.

That hole in your heart will never be filled. You’ll never be complete again, not in the same way. You just learn to live with that empty spot, that darkness in your soul.

I really need to learn to take my own advice, to listen to my own… wisdom, for lack of a better word.

But I’m not. I’m not listening to myself, and I’m not wise, either. In all the ways I’ve been there, done that… I’ve never been here before. I’ve never done this before.

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