"how are you doing?"

I keep wondering how long it will be before I know how to answer that question.

“Truthfully and honestly,” most people would tell me. But that feels impossible. Most people are asking out of politeness or even just mere curiosity or, yes, sometimes out of sheer kindness. I appreciate the question. Really. Answering it just feels insurmountable. I’d need hours to answer it fully. I’d need complete trust and safety in the person asking it; I’d need their oath that they won’t squirm under the uncomfortability in the complicated answer. I’d need to hear that my tears won’t frighten them away when they come (because they always do).

I try to say something lighthearted when asked how I am. “Hanging in there!” or even, foolishly, “Good!” Sometimes I just shrug and trail off with an, “Oh, you know…” Truthfully, most people sort of trip over asking it, knowing it’s what they’re supposed to ask even if they really don’t want to because it’s the potential opening to a very uncomfortable conversation. I appreciate the people who do ask, because even if it’s out of politeness, it’s like they’re giving me the floor to talk. I seem to always be desperate these days for the opportunity to talk. I’m embarrassed by it, by the word vomit that can spill out of me anytime someone is willing to have a real conversation with me about grief or Pete or my New Life. 

How do I explain how we are? We’re grieving. Navigating. Exploring. Heartbroken. Shell-shocked. Busy. Overwhelmed. We’re also rebuilding. Existing. Celebrating new starts. Proud of ourselves. Moving on. Experiencing joy. Building new dreams. I’ve never experienced this kind of intermingling between the most intense emotional pain I have ever felt while also feeling excitement to be beginning a new chapter that Pete always wanted for us. It’s confusing and exhausting and terrifying all at once. 

I am doing well, but my heart is broken. I am okay, but I cry several times a day. My kids are happy, but they miss their daddy. I am endlessly grateful for the time I got with my husband, but I’m also full of rage that he’s not here. I am working so hard to build us a new life, with no guarantee that it will ever be as good as the one we left. I am operating on complete blind faith, without even knowing what I believe in yet. I am checking all the boxes – getting my oldest to his new school, getting the kids to the doctor, feeding us well, making sure we all get enough sleep and love and attention, working as much as I can, but in between I am often sobbing on my kitchen floor because none of this feels real. I’ve learned to drive, how to install the carseats, how to do the things you used to do. We are safe and healthy and usually happy, but all of this still feels like a terrible nightmare I want to wake up from.