The Myth of Moving On

Feb 23
3 min read

gym shoes standing behind a chalk arrow on blacktop pointing forward

Until I experienced loss myself, I did not understand the nuance between these two phrases:

Moving on. Moving forward.

They sound almost the same. I probably used them interchangeably.

Now, when someone says, "They are starting to move on,” I notice I cringe a little. Not because they are wrong. Not because I want to correct them. But because I know what that phrase can feel like from the inside.

Moving on feels like leaving behind.

Like closing a door.

Like putting someone neatly in the past.

Like graduating from them.

And that has never been my experience.

When you lose a spouse, you do not move on from them. You move forward with them woven into you.

They are in your history. In your children. In your stories. In the way you make decisions. In the way you love. In the way you worry. In the way you celebrate.

Healing, at least for me, has not been about erasing him.

It has been about learning how to carry him differently.

What People Think Healing Should Look Like

Before Steve died, I think I imagined grief as something you moved through.

Hard. Painful. But eventually behind you.

There is this cultural narrative that at some point you “move on.” That you build your new life and the old one becomes a chapter. Important, yes. But closed.

Real life is not that tidy.

I did not close a chapter.

I did not replace him.

I did not stop loving him.

I just kept living.

And living changed me.

Moving Forward Looked Different Every Year

In the beginning, moving forward meant survival.

It meant waking up. Literally.

Putting one foot on the floor.

Getting my daughters to school.

Answering emails.

Signing papers I never wanted to sign.

There was nothing inspirational about it. It was mechanical. Necessary. One day at a time felt like too much, so it was often one hour at a time.

Then there was a season where the fog started to lift.

I could think more clearly. I could plan ahead without feeling like I might shatter. The sharpness was still there, but it was not constant. I started to notice moments that did not feel consumed by grief.

That felt disorienting in its own way.

Then moving forward became about rebuilding.

Confidence.

Identity.

My professional voice.

Who I was outside of “we.”

That part was harder than I expected. It was not just grief. It was rediscovery.

And now?

Now moving forward feels steadier.

The grief is not gone. It is just less sharp. It does not sit in my chest all day. It shows up in moments. College weekends. Weddings. Random Tuesday memories.

I like my life now.

I can say that without whispering it. That took time.

I am proud of my daughters. Proud of the work I do. Proud of the woman I have become.

Yes, I wish Steve were here. I wish he could see it. I wish he were part of it.

That wish has not softened.

But loving my life does not mean I have moved on from him.

It means I have learned how to live forward while still loving backward.