Widowhood. Six months in. I sit here in quiet awe of the woman at the keyboard, fingers moving across the keys as if they still belong to the life I once knew. They look like mine—these same hands that have always prepared meals, cared for Oliver, waved to neighbors, and answered the phone when friends and family call to check in. From the outside, everything appears familiar. But the truth is, I am not the same woman I was six months ago. That woman died with VST, and in her place stands someone new—stronger, harder, and still trying to understand who she is becoming.
Unless you are a widow—and even then—no one can fully understand the path I have walked. In these months shaped by both loss and a world slowed by COVID, I have traveled through a wilderness more daunting than any high Sierra trail. There were moments so cold and lonely I thought I might simply lie down and let grief consume me. The pain felt relentless, as though no matter how far I walked, one small turn would lead me right back into the darkness. This journey has no shortcuts. No map. It is a path I must walk alone, even when surrounded by others.
And yet, words have carried me. Words like Food, Shelter, Clothing, Friendship, Everlasting Love, Faith, Adventure, and Happiness have become my anchor—my port in the storm. They represent the life we built together, the foundation of the power couple that was Dr. and Mrs. Hurt. Now, as I stand at the threshold of Month Seven, it feels both strange and necessary to choose a new word, a new focus. Looking back on the words that defined our 32 years together brings a deep and quiet comfort—like stepping into a meadow where grief loosens its grip, if only for a moment.
A year ago, life was still unfolding as we expected. We had just decided to return to Cayucos along the California coast. VST was still walking Oliver each day. We chose to stay a little longer in Virginia City, even naming our home The Dunmovin House to reflect that choice. There were subtle changes in him then—things I quietly questioned but never fully understood. Even if we had known the truth sooner, the ending would have been the same. The only difference is that we might have missed those final RV trips, those last sweet memories that now mean everything.
I think of our final Christmas together. I was sick with a cold and, as often happens, passed it along to him. We took turns caring for one another as snow fell gently outside. It was a white Christmas on our mountain—quiet, simple, and, though we didn’t know it then, our last one together.
When spring arrived, VST finished what he had always done so well—he completed the work before him. Projects were wrapped up, the last nail driven. He set down his tools with pride in a life well lived. He touched so many people in meaningful ways, carrying others through their struggles with strength and love. He loved fiercely and faithfully. He was loyal, trustworthy, and worthy of every title he held—Father, Dad, friend, and, to me, my Dr. H. Imperfectly perfect, just as the best of us are.
Somewhere in the midst of saying goodbye, this new version of me emerged. She came quietly at first—helpful, strong, smart, even a little funny—and scared beyond words. But she stayed. She planted her feet in this new place called Home and began to grow. I realize now that these qualities were always within me. Somewhere along the way, I had set them aside, becoming a passenger in my own life. That version of me is gone now, and I don’t wish to call her back.
Today, I choose something different. I choose happiness. Faith. Strength. Perseverance. I choose God. I am learning to move forward, step by step, through this first year of widowhood. I know there are still rivers to cross and terrain that will challenge me in ways I cannot yet imagine. But I also know this—I am strong enough to stay on the path. It will be okay. God and I will walk it together.
There came a day, sometime in late summer, when I woke with a quiet knowing. I could no longer wear my wedding ring. For 32 years, it had been a symbol of something sacred—simple, golden, enduring. But what it represented could not be contained within a circle of gold. Our love was far greater than that. Removing it was harder than I expected. My finger, pale and marked by years of wear, felt exposed and strangely vulnerable, as if even my body was learning this new truth. I was no longer a wife. I was a widow.
And yet, here I am—six months gone, six months here—beginning to reach outward again. I find myself laughing with friends, making plans, stepping into small adventures that feel both new and unfamiliar. I am learning how to care for this woman I am becoming—how to speak kindly to her, how to celebrate her small victories, how to recognize her strength. I smile now, and it feels real. The long winter of grief has begun to soften, and in its place, I sense something like autumn—steady, golden, and full of quiet promise. I hope it lingers for many years to come.
One of the last things VST said to me, in a voice soft and fading, was that he wanted to return to the ocean. I hold that close. One day, I will go to San Simeon and release him to the wind. That moment will come when I am ready to turn the final page of our earthly story together. But not yet. For now, I place that thought gently aside, tucked safely behind tearful eyes. There is still healing to be done in this first year.
If you are reading this, I ask only this—cheer for me in your own quiet way. And then, cheer for yourself. For all that you have endured. For all that you have loved. Reach out to those who matter. Call them. Hold them close. Laugh when you can. And if you, too, are walking through loss, know this—you are not alone. Love still surrounds us. And one day, we will step out of this wilderness into the clearing, stronger for having made the journey.
