Lesson 3: Nothing Looks Like the Way You Thought It Would
A reflection on grief, missed timelines, and the quiet beauty of trusting the unknown when life doesn’t go as planned.
Over the past few years, I've noticed frequent posts on socials about grieving the lives we thought we’d be living by now—whether it’s getting married, having children, owning a home, or simply being somewhere we imagined we'd be by a certain age. Today, as I sit down to write this opening reflection, I realize, “Shit, I’ve already grieved that life. A long, long time ago.” Not by choice, but purely through circumstances.
The life I'm referring to is one filled with a loving husband, possibly children, and a shared home—the life I once thought was mine until it wasn't.
Even now, as I hold space for this lingering grief, it sometimes feels heavier than the actual loss of Nickolas. But when I look at what’s unfolded over the past decade including a pivot in my career, grad school, unexpected adventures through this sabbatical, special connections I've encountered, and most importantly, finding the courage to hope for the very life I'd once mourned—it becomes clear that perhaps things are working out exactly as they should.
It just doesn’t look the way I thought it would.
Instead of holding tight to expectations and timelines, I've learned to lean into my uncertainties, fears, and doubts with vulnerability, authenticity, and stillness. Because as we collectively know, no amount of rumination or anxiety will change our circumstances or influence how life ultimately unfolds.
And as I slowly let go and surrender, peace begins to settle in; a quiet reassurance that while life might not be unfolding according to my original script, it might actually turn out even better.
Lesson 3: Nothing Looks Like the Way You Thought It Would
Or, for that matter, nothing happens on your timeline or linearly.
It was mid-morning in early July 2023 at Kyle’s flat in Portland, Oregon. I had nursed two cups of Stumptown coffee when I hopped on a call with a recruiter. I figured that in six months, I'd be back to the grind. After all, I'd worked mostly hard to get to where I was; taking an extended break felt almost irresponsible.
Little did I know it would take six months just to unwind and let go, and an entire calendar year to get to the core of my pain points. During that time, I launched this blog, nursed my physical and emotional injuries, juggled job applications, and navigated many rounds of demanding interviews with Corporate America—the same Corporate America that dared to question if my workload had been too much, simply because I chose to take a sabbatical. Could they have managed a career change, grad school, crippling grief, and a global pandemic all at once? You bet I’m keeping score.
For the last seven months, everyone closest to me has been on edge, wondering if I'd finally land a job. How many final interviews have I had without an offer? Nothing worked out the way I’d hoped. Nothing fell into place. With every disappointment, I searched for answers that never came, repeatedly questioning if this sabbatical had been a mistake.
This past July, in a state of sheer defeat, I told my therapist, “I wish I had good news for you. Like, I found a job or fell in love… something, anything.” With warmth and assurance, she gently reminded me, “...that’s not the purpose of your sabbatical.”
She was right. That wasn’t the purpose.
The purpose was everything else: catching up on sleep, spending time with my aging parents, sorting myself out, and surprisingly, finally holding space for my grief with self-compassion instead of resistance and logic.
Then, as the new year rolled in, someone unexpectedly resurfaced. My first thought was, "Why now, and for what?" But through this revived connection, I saw the fruits of my labor, the invisible work I’d done during this sabbatical that led to an extraordinary inner transformation. The past 20 months had prepared me for this moment: leading with my heart, the one thing I’d fiercely protected since Nickolas’ death. After losing him, I vowed that no one would ever break my heart again. What I didn’t realize when making this vow was just how incredibly resilient my heart actually is, and that ultimately, whatever happens, I’d be okay because I’m me.
Suddenly, I was living what I had been preaching: being open to possibilities and leaving room for magic. This meant taking a leap of faith, trusting in the things I couldn’t see, and believing in the timing of everything. It is these moments that I feel gratitude for all that hadn’t worked out. Having experienced profound loss, I no longer believe in the cliché that “things happen for a reason.” Instead, I've embraced a sentiment captured beautifully by George Falconer in Christopher Isherwood’s A Single Man, who, reflecting on life after loss, said:
“A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity. When for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh. It’s as though it had all just come into existence. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.”
There have been a few of these moments during my sabbatical, moments that felt exactly like this.
So no, life hasn’t turned out how I imagined—not on my timeline, or in the order I wanted, and certainly not in the ways I expected.
Then again, it wasn’t in my plans to be widowed at 26, lose my best friend, and navigate something as complex and crushing as grief. It wasn’t in my plans to roam aimlessly, searching for answers, trying to piece myself and my hopes back together. But it’s precisely all the roaming, getting lost, and seeking answers that landed me here, in a place where I’m open and hopeful.
Open to love, no matter how vulnerable it makes me.
Open to the next chapter, even without knowing how it will unfold.
And finally, hopeful—not because everything worked out the way I thought it should, but because life, with all its detours, has repeatedly shown me that the unknown holds more magic, possibility, and joy than I ever could’ve planned for.
My only job now is to keep living. The rest, surely, will unfold in its own time.
Missed last week’s post? Catch up on Lesson 2, where I reflect on the evolving meaning of home, identity, and connection.