The Day My World Stopped Spinning

I still remember the way the sunlight came through the window that morning. It filtered softly through the curtains, painting golden lines across the hardwood floor. I remember how normal it all felt—how painfully normal. I made coffee, packed lunches, and reminded my husband, Ethan, not to forget his briefcase again. He smiled, kissed my forehead, and walked out the door.

I didn’t know that was the last time I’d ever see him.

We’d been married for seven years, together for almost ten. Ours wasn’t a perfect marriage, but it was real. We fought about the usual things—money, schedules, how to load the dishwasher “properly”—but we loved each other. Every time I looked at him, I still saw the boy I fell in love with at a college open mic night, nervous and strumming his guitar like the whole world depended on his song.

At 2:37 p.m., my phone rang. I was answering emails, half-listening to a podcast, when I saw the call: St. Mary's Hospital. My stomach dropped. I didn’t pick up the first time. Maybe I thought if I didn’t answer, nothing bad had happened yet.

The second time it rang, I answered.

The words were jumbled: accident, cardiac arrest, unresponsive, please come quickly. I don’t remember driving. I only remember the sterile white of the hospital walls, the dull hum of fluorescent lights, and the way the nurse avoided eye contact.

“He didn’t suffer,” she said.

But I did.

For weeks, I moved through a fog. I went through the motions—signed papers, organized the funeral, smiled politely at well-meaning people who offered clichés like "time heals all wounds" and "he's in a better place." A better place? The best place for Ethan was here, beside me, where his laugh filled the room and his socks always ended up under the coffee table.

The world didn’t stop, but mine did. The clocks kept ticking. The sun kept rising. People kept living. And I—well, I kept pretending.

Grief is strange. It doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in waves. At first, the wave crashes over you, and you can’t breathe. Then it recedes for a moment, and you think, maybe I’m okay. Then—another wave, stronger than before. Eventually, the waves come farther apart, but they still knock you down when you least expect them.

Three months after Ethan’s death, I found a letter in his sock drawer. It was addressed to me, in his messy handwriting. I almost didn’t open it. I wasn’t ready. But something told me to read it.

> *"Dear Liv,
If you're reading this, something must have happened. I'm sorry. God, I wish I could take your pain away. But if I can’t be there to do it, I need you to promise me something. Don’t let this destroy you. You are stronger than you know.

I’ve seen you laugh in the middle of storms, love with your whole heart even when it was broken, and fight for people when no one else would.

Live your life, Liv. Not just for me. For you. Do all the things we dreamed of. Open that bookstore. Take that trip to Scotland. Love again, when you're ready. I’ll be with you. Always.

Yours,
Ethan."*



I wept like I hadn’t in weeks. Not quiet tears. I sobbed. The kind of sob that wracks your whole body and leaves you gasping. But when the storm passed, I felt something else.

Hope.

He was gone. But he wasn’t.

It took time—more time than I wanted. I went to therapy. I quit my job. I used the life insurance money to open the bookstore Ethan and I had once fantasized about, “The Quiet Corner.” A little shop on a side street, with creaky floors and coffee that always tastes slightly burnt but oddly comforting.

And then came Jack.

He was a customer—bought the same worn-out mystery novels and sat by the window every Friday. We started talking. Slowly. He never pried. He never rushed. He just listened. One day he brought me a blueberry muffin and said, “I don’t know your story, but I’d like to.”

It wasn’t a lightning bolt. It was more like the first breath after holding it underwater for too long.

The first time I let him hold my hand, I cried. The first time I kissed him, I whispered “I’m sorry” to Ethan in my mind. But I think he would’ve smiled.

Jack never tried to replace what I lost. He simply held space for it. For me.

Today, it’s been two years.

Two years since the worst day of my life. And somehow, I’m still here. Breathing. Living. Laughing, even. I still talk to Ethan. Not out loud, but in the quiet moments—when the sun hits the floor just right, or I hear a song he loved, or when I see someone playing guitar on a corner and think, “He’d have liked that.”

Grief never goes away. But it transforms. From something that buries you… into something that becomes part of you. A scar that aches sometimes. A shadow that walks beside you.

But it also makes room—for new beginnings. For second chances. For love, again.

So if you’ve lost someone, let me say this: I see you. I know how it feels to think your world has stopped spinning. But I promise—one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—you’ll feel the earth turn again.

And when it does, let yourself move with it.