Last Updated on May 11, 2025
When blue skies return – love, time, and healing
The past few weeks have been unusually fine. Not just “a stretch in the evenings” kind of fine, but real blue skies and warm sunshine. No rain. Not a drop. I’ve found myself sitting out in the garden more than I expected, almost surprised by how good it feels.
There was a time when days like this felt cruel. In those early years after he died, I dreaded fine weather. Sunny days meant long weekends, family outings, couples walking hand-in-hand, and an ache I couldn’t explain to anyone who hadn’t lived it. The stillness of Sundays, in particular, was unbearable. Too much time to think. Too many reminders of the life we had and the one we should still be living.
But this spring feels different. I didn’t notice the shift at first. Maybe it’s been gradual. But I can feel it now.
Earlier today I stepped out into the garden, tea in hand, and just… paused. I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun. I could hear the birds, busy and unbothered, and somewhere nearby someone was cutting their grass—that fresh green smell drifting over the hedge like a balm. And I realised I was happy. Not in a loud, giddy way. But something softer. Quieter. A kind of peace I haven’t felt in years.
It’s been almost five years now. And while I’ll never stop missing him, something in me has started to shift. I don’t brace myself against the weekends the way I used to. I don’t rush to fill every hour, or dread the silence when the house is still. I’m learning to enjoy my own company. I go for walks in this fine weather, not just to pass time, but because I want to. That surprised me. I never thought I’d feel that again.
Grief changes. It doesn’t go. It doesn’t even really shrink—it just becomes more familiar. Less sharp. The waves of sadness still come, but they’re fewer now, and the gaps between them have grown. They don’t crash in like they used to. These days, they arrive more like a quiet tide, and I’ve learned how to stand steadier when they do.
I know people look at me and think I’m “doing well.” And in many ways, I am. But it’s only now, in this fine spell of weather, that I’ve realised something else: I’m beginning to feel well, too.
That’s something I never imagined I’d be able to say.
Maybe that’s what happens when blue skies return—not just in the sky, with the warmth and light of the day, but in yourself too.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to welcome this new version of myself—someone who still misses what was, but who can also feel the warmth of what still is.
I loved the piece called When Blue Skies return by the guest writer. It hasn’t been five years at all for me, more like I’m now in the eleventh month since Patrick the love of my life died. But, blue skies have returned. The healing has at least started. I will always miss him, and treasure the role he played in my life, but it has become my life again. Not the one, where all my time was spent thinking about the treatment of his illness, and then the rituals around his death. But back to me, making plans for myself, and it feels good to acknowledge that I’m alive for another while, at least.
One thing I’ve noticed is my handwriting has become a replica of his. Has anyone else noticed how we take on the characteristics of our lost loved ones? It’s part of the mourning. We identify and internalize the lost loved one, in an effort to keep him.
Similar to one friend who actually heard the voice of her husband through the wall, after he died. A form of wishful thinking that is powerful as we use our senses to manifest the defense.I have actually planned a brief four day trip, my first in three years, since Patrick got sick.
Wishing you all a great day!