Twinges of Sorrow

I’ve been thinking about milestones lately - events that have a before and an after. Key stages of my life. And how these milestones change as we age. And as we grieve (or at least as I grieve). Milestones that Sami and I would have celebrated together become milestones that are still celebrated, but with a twinge of sorrow. At least for me.

I think my first experience with this was my first trip to watch Emma compete in logging sports in the fall after Sami died - an event that coincided with what would have been Sami’s 54th birthday in 2023. We’d planned to go to Moscow, Idaho together that fall. And while watching Emma compete (and lead the University of Idaho team as club president) was an amazing experience, I was also incredibly sad to be there alone. Celebrating alone was hard.

My daughters and I have passed other milestones since that 2023 trip. Emma turned 21 the following summer, and graduated from college in May of 2025. Lara and her boyfriend Micah got engaged later that summer and will be married this May. Emma just landed her first career job. We’ve celebrated all of these events together; in some ways I think we celebrate more fully because we realize now that none of us know what lies ahead. None of us know whether we’ll continue to be able to celebrate together. But each of these milestones make me miss Sami. Each milestone is more emotional for me alone than it would be if I were still sharing it with Sami.

As I was thinking about all of this on my drive to work this morning, I also realized that I’m at an age (and a stage in life) where I don’t really know how many milestones I have left in my own chronology. While I enjoy my work, I do hope to be able to retire in seven or eight years - and I suppose retirement will feel like a milestone. But for some reason, birthdays feel minor to me - maybe turning 60 in 2027 will feel more significant. But for now, I prefer to celebrate my daughter’s milestones and successes. I’m so lucky to be their Dad; I wish Sami could be here to celebrate with us as their Mom. My own milestones seem insignificant.

I wonder if these feelings are unique to grieving for a partner? I know that my family and friends are happy for these accomplishments (and for my own milestones, like birthdays), but I also know they can’t fully appreciate them because my girls - our girls! - aren’t “their” girls. They helped make “our” girls who they are today, but they didn’t have a front row seat - or day-to-day responsibility. They can’t celebrate like Sami and I would. I don’t expect them to.

And I think this probably makes me difficult to approach sometimes. I share my happiness about these milestones; my sorrow is often private. My sorrow makes me look inward, which is partly responsible for my frequent introversion, I suspect. I also suspect that my introversion confuses friends who also hear me say I’m lonely - why would someone prefer to be alone when they’re lonely?! These continued twinges of sorrow must make me a complicated companion.