Dear Hope: How am I supposed to live without my partner?
Dear Hope,
How am I supposed to live without my partner? They were my everything. I don’t think I can go on.
They were your home. Your person. The one who saw you in your quiet moments, who finished your sentences, who made you feel like you could exhale in a world that never seems to let up.
And then— the call, the crash, the diagnosis, the silence. Gone. Whatever it was that took your person away from you, it doesn’t change the impact on your world.
Now everything you built together sits in a room that echoes. Their clothes still smell like them. Their toothbrush is still in the cup. You still catch yourself reaching for your phone to text them. Still dream they’re coming back. Still expect the door to open.
You don’t just miss them. You miss you — the version of yourself that only existed beside them. The one who laughed at their dumb jokes. The one who felt safe. Held. Chosen. And now you're left with a body full of love and nowhere to put it.
People will feed you lines:
"They're in a better place."
"Time heals all wounds."
But none of that helps when your world has been shattered beyond recognition. When you have no option but to continue living on without them.
So let’s tell the truth:
This hurts like hell.
It feels like drowning in a sea no one else can see.
And some days, survival feels like an insult.
You didn’t ask to be here. You didn’t ask to learn how to live without them.
But you are. Somehow, you’re still here.
You brushed your teeth. You drank water. You cried into your hands until your chest burned. That counts. That’s survival. That’s love, still speaking.
You don’t have to know how to get through tomorrow. You just have to get through this hour. This breath. Grief isn’t a journey forward. It’s a slow, aching walk through the ruins.
And no, you’re not moving on — you’re moving with. Carrying what’s left.
And one day, maybe, you’ll find a way to let the love grow around the loss. Not to fix it. But to live beside it.
And that will be enough.
