Some Assembly Required, Contents Shift Daily

On Transitions That Don’t Move Forward, But Ask to be Noticed

This post is a reworked version of a letter I originally wrote for myself. I’m sharing it here because I suspect I’m not the only one who finds that certain moments, especially around the holidays, carry more weight than we expect.

Every year, I tell myself that this year will be different.

This year I will put the tree up early.

This year we will enjoy it.

And every year, I put it off.

When the boxes finally come out and the branches start to unfold, I’m not at my best. I’m impatient. Edgy. Everything feels louder than it should. My son is excited, boisterous in the way only a ten-year-old can be, and instead of meeting him there, I react. I snap. Later, I replay it in my head and wonder why something that is supposed to be joyful feels so hard.

It took me a while to realize that the tree isn’t just a tree.

It’s a marker. A before and after. A reminder of when this was something we did together, when the chaos felt shared instead of carried. When there was another adult in the room, another set of hands, another steady presence. Decorating the tree used to be noisy and imperfect and fun. It was balanced.

Now it feels heavier.

I miss my husband. I miss the way he grounded those moments. I miss watching him with the kids, the silliness, the wrestling, the laughter that spilled out into winter days. ”Encore, papa”. I still hear it. The kids still laugh when we remember something silly he did or had them do.

Laughter is still here. Love is still here.

But so is grief.

It shows up in unexpected ways, impatience instead of tears, irritability instead of sadness. Some days I honestly don’t know where it’s coming from: grief, exhaustion, or perimenopause. Possibly all three conspiring together. They don’t send separate signals. They just pile on.

It shows up when Facebook reminds me of who we were, photos in the snow, words I wrote years ago about carrying his love forward. I meant those words. I still do. But they didn’t capture the whole truth: that remembering can be both comforting and sharp, sometimes in the same breath.

And then there are the small things. The ones you don’t see coming.

I still receive mail in his name sometimes, usually spam, things that don’t matter. But recently, a Christmas card arrived addressed only to me. It was from his former employee and friend (and mine), now a successful real estate agent. For years, those cards came with both our names. At some point, out of respect, his name was removed.

I don’t know when that happened. I only noticed it this year.

It stopped me in my tracks.

It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t unkind. And still, it hurt. It felt like another quiet shift, another place where the world has moved on while I am still standing in the same emotional space, carrying both love and loss at once.

I think that’s part of what I struggle with, though I don’t always know how to name it. I’m not angry at anyone in particular. I’m angry that time keeps moving. That joy now takes effort. That something as simple as putting up a tree can open a door I didn’t intend to walk through.

Three and a half years later, I’m still learning that this isn’t something to fix or get past. It’s something to notice. To name. To allow.

That distinction matters. Trying to “fix” it only adds another layer of effort to days that already require so much. Pausing to recognize what I’m feeling, and to ask why, creates a little space to breathe.

My reactions aren’t failures. They’re signals. They tell me that this mattered. That he mattered. That the life we built together is still present, even in its absence.

Maybe the tree goes up slowly.

Maybe there are breaks.

Maybe it’s okay to say out loud that today is hard.

Maybe this, too, is part of remembering, not just the joy, but the weight of loving someone who is no longer here.

Closing reflection

Transitions are often described as movement, before to after, loss to healing, old to new. But many transitions don’t move forward so much as they shift. They rearrange us quietly, day by day, in ways that are easy to miss until something small brings it into focus. A tree. A card. A moment that feels heavier than it should.

We tend to expect ourselves to adapt quickly, to “get back to normal,” to find joy the way we once did. But some transitions don’t ask us to return to who we were. They ask us to learn how to carry what remains while still showing up for what is here now. That kind of adjustment takes energy. It takes honesty. And sometimes, it takes letting go of the idea that ease is the goal.

Perhaps transitions are less about moving forward than about learning to stand inside the shift, witnessing it slowly and honestly and showing up anyway, even when the contents shift daily.

-- Anne TM Konkle