I Didn't Choose This Life

Brad and I used to say we didn't need each other. We chose each other.

The idea of choice mattered to us. It was the theme of our wedding vows. We believed love wasn't obligation or dependency or fear of being alone. It was daily, intentional choosing. Not because we had to. Because we wanted to.

That belief shaped our marriage.

And then Brad died.

And suddenly I was living a life I absolutely did not choose.

For a long time, that felt like a betrayal of everything we believed in. If love was about choice, what did it mean that this loss, this loneliness, this altered future, was forced on me?

Grief felt like something that happened to me. Something I endured. Something I survived.

And for a while, surviving was enough.

But eventually, surviving started to feel like a waste. I still had a life, and Brad's had been cut so short.

I was continuing, not deciding. Existing, not choosing.

So I made a choice. A big one. I decided to leave Detroit.

Detroit was where we had built our life. It held our friends and my support system. It held our routines, our memories, and the version of myself that only existed in that shared world.

Staying felt safe. Familiar. Loyal. But staying also felt like orbiting a life that no longer existed.

The decision wasn't dramatic. It wasn't even thought out. I saw a listing for a cottage for rent in Northern Michigan, made an appointment to see it the next day, and signed a lease on the spot.

It didn't feel brave or empowering. It felt impulsive and terrifying.

I was abandoning the life I chose. The life Brad and I chose.

But on our wedding day, we vowed to always choose love. And I no longer loved this life.

The only way to change that was to make a different choice.

Leaving was the big choice. What I didn't expect were all the small ones that followed:

• Choosing a new place to live.

• Choosing what to keep and what to release.

• Choosing new routines.

• Choosing how much of my story to share.

• Choosing who I wanted to be, in my life now.

I reconnected with my inner knowing and made decisions that suited me now. I said no to what no longer felt aligned and yes to what lit me up. I asked questions. I experimented. I failed. I tried again.

And through it all, I found new joys. The wild ramps I foraged my first spring. Sunrise swims in the cold waters of Lake Michigan. The quiet warmth of afternoon light streaming across my patio.

One big choice didn't rebuild my life. But it did crack something open. It reminded me that even in a life shaped by force, there is still space, however small, for agency.

Grief, and any big loss or change, can make it easy to keep going down a path simply because it's familiar. To keep relationships because they were there before. To say yes because you don't want to disappoint anyone. To say no because wanting feels risky.

And sometimes it feels easier not to want anything at all.

But rebuilding doesn't have to start with a grand reinvention. It can start with an experiment. With a question: Does this still fit? Do I want this?

If I'm honest, what would I choose now?

Field Assignment: Continuing or Choosing

You don't have to sign a lease on the spot. You don't have to change anything this week at all.

For the next five days, catch yourself continuing. Once a day, notice one thing you do simply because you've always done it. It could be a routine, a standing yes, the way you spend Sunday mornings, a room you haven't touched, or the answer you give when someone asks how you're doing.

Write it down. Then ask: If I'm honest, would I choose this now?

Answer yes, no, or not sure. Then leave it there. No fixing, no deciding. This week, you're just scouting.

At the end of the five days, read your list and ask yourself:

• What surprised you?

• Which of these turned out to be real choices, even if you never thought of them that way?

• Which "not sure" do you want to keep watching?

The yeses count too. Some of what you continue is exactly what you'd choose again. Knowing that is its own kind of agency.

Brad and I committed to choosing each other. And we did, until his last breath.

Now I honor him by choosing to live. Boldly and fully.

If you want structure and company for this kind of noticing, The Next 100 Days Challenge kicks off October 13. It's a 100-day practice built on a framework Brad created after his diagnosis. One weekly assignment at a time, it asks what you'd choose if these 100 days mattered.