In June 2024, without any warning, my soulmate and most beloved husband, Robert, tragically passed away after battling with insomnia, mental anxiety, fear, and panic attacks. I shielded this devastating truth from the world to preserve his public image and personal dignity. His sudden and shocking passing shattered my world, leaving me adrift in an ocean of grief, pain, and unanswered questions. The rest of the year became a blur of mental anguish and torment as guilt and self-blame wove themselves into the fabric of my every thought. I agonized over the what-ifs, endlessly questioning if I could have better understood his mental struggles or intervened to change the course of that fateful day. The weight of these emotions bore down on me, an unyielding shadow that stretched across the final days of 2024.
Yet, somehow—though I don’t know how—I survived. After enduring what felt like endless sleepless nights, I still managed to rise each morning beneath the crushing weight of my sorrow. A single, aching thought consumed me at times: I cared little for this world and longed only to be with Robert. Yet, whenever the pain grew almost unbearable, and the idea of leaving this world felt frighteningly real, something deep within pulled me back from the edge, keeping me from doing something irrevocable.
I had always hated traveling alone, having shared every trip with Robert during our earthly journey. But in my search for solace, I embarked on solitary travels, venturing far from home in a desperate attempt to escape the pain, even if only for a moment of relief.
Though I had never seen myself as a writer, Robert’s passing inspired me to pick up my pen and complete an inspirational memoir in just three months, which is now in the process of being published. Since then, I’ve continued to write shorter pieces, sharing them on social media platforms to heal and reflect.
On December 31, the last day of 2024, I resolved to bid farewell to the year with a semblance of joy and a glimmer of hope for the year ahead. Joined by my sweet daughter, we set out on a scenic drive to the summit of Mt. Lemmon, affectionately known as Summerhaven, embracing the crisp mountain air and the tranquil promise of a serene, fun-filled afternoon. We planned to savor a delightful dinner after visiting Summerhaven when the sun dipped below the horizon, welcoming New Year’s Eve with a sense of warmth, connection, and quiet optimism.
Halfway up the Mount Lemmon Highway en route to Summerhaven, we paused at Windy Point Vista, a stunning overlook offering breathtaking views of the sprawling landscape below. This was my third visit to this spot. The first was when Robert brought me here two years ago, and the second was when he brought me and our daughter here one year ago. With Robert gone, my daughter and I were left to navigate a world without him. Life can be here in one moment yet slip away forever in the next, as if we’re merely passing through, fragile and fleeting.
The landscape before us was as stunning as ever, seemingly untouched by time, but my heart had been irrevocably changed. As I wandered around, every step I took reminded me of Robert, and my eyes could no longer genuinely perceive the splendor before me. The breathtaking vistas that once inspired awe now felt hollow, their beauty eclipsed by the weight of my sorrow. No matter how magnificent the view, I could hardly care.
As I stood at the edge of the cliff, the horrifying memory of Robert’s death flooded my mind, and tears began to stream uncontrollably down my face. Naturally terrified of heights, my legs trembled beneath me while a haunting shadow hovered over my soul. A dark, unsettling question emerged: was I brave enough to leap into the void to be with Robert and leave the pain behind forever?
The answer came swiftly—no. I lacked the courage. At that moment, I understood that it took a rare bravery to surrender our only life in this world. More importantly, how could I ever bring myself to abandon my sweet daughter, leaving her to face this world without me? Robert could never grasp the depths of the pain his passing inflicted on me, how it relentlessly haunted every corner of my soul and my every waking moment. But if I chose the same path, if I allowed myself to follow in his tragic footsteps, my daughter would be condemned to endure the same excruciating pain and suffering that I had felt. I couldn’t bear the thought of passing on that legacy of anguish to her, as if she were destined to relive the heartache that had shattered me.
The most striking contrast was the scene unfolding around me. Surrounded by tourists, all marveling and laughing at the beauty of God’s creation, no one would have noticed the depths of the anguish I was silently enduring. While they reveled in the splendor of the view, I wandered aimlessly, drowning in a sea of never-ending tears, desperately trying to hide from the crowd, concealing the sorrow that consumed me. The world seemed to move in harmony, a serene picture of life continuing, yet I felt I was existing in a separate, painful reality. At that moment, I wondered how many others, like me, hid their torment behind a mask of normalcy, pretending to be part of a world that seemed so distant from their pain.
As you can imagine, the rest of the day was utterly overshadowed. Not because I wanted to be in this state but because I couldn’t control the flood of tears. The weight of the memories had broken through, and no matter how hard I tried to keep it together, I couldn’t stop the sorrow from spilling out.
I cried the entire way in the car as we went to a Korean restaurant. It was the worst New Year’s Eve dining experience ever. There was no laughter, conversation, or smiles—just a silent sadness filling the air.
We finally ordered the food and began to eat. I forced myself to lift my glass of water, pushing through the moment’s heaviness. “Let’s celebrate the New Year,” I said, though my heart wasn’t in it. Still, we raised our cups and cheered, a fleeting attempt to hold on to some semblance of tradition.
This was our New Year’s Eve celebration. How many grand gala events were taking place across the U.S.? How many millions worldwide truly reveled in the joy of the bell’s toll? And how many, like me, silently carried the crushing weight of grief, mourning the loss of a loved one?
Why am I compelled to write and share this sorrowful story that seems to stand in stark contrast to the hope and joy typically ushered in by the New Year? Why can’t I be more positive, forget the past, and move forward with hope?
The most valuable lesson I’ve learned is that people can never truly understand another’s pain unless they have lived through it themselves. I share this story to remind those suffering that they are not alone. We often become so blinded by our happiness that we fail to notice the pain others are carrying. If we took a moment to pay closer attention, we might be able to extend a hand, even with the smallest gesture, to show others that we care.
Our desire to live is not merely for ourselves but for those we love. It is a bond that transcends the self, a deep-rooted sense of responsibility that keeps us tethered to this world. Our lives intertwine with theirs, and in the end, this love becomes the guiding force, giving us the strength to go on.
My painful journey taught me the profound truth of “finding divine purpose and healing through suffering.” I might never have become an author and writer if Robert were still with me. I wouldn’t have encountered so many strangers who became a source of encouragement through my social network. Nor would I have discovered a new sense of purpose and direction in life, born from grief but filled with renewed meaning.
This is the spirit of the promise of a new beginning: a beacon of hope for all, especially those who carry the pain of their suffering. You may not feel the joy of a “Happy New Year,” but I pray for a Better 2025 filled with healing and strength.
I survived the two most challenging holidays, Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. You will survive in 2025, too.