Between Holding On and Learning to Breathe Again

Dear Vic,

It’s only been two weeks into our four-week holiday in Vietnam, yet I already find myself missing home.

Not just the place but the routines. The structure. The predictable rhythm of days that once felt ordinary and now feel strangely comforting. I even miss the endless paperwork - the documents still waiting for my signature, the practical tasks tied to sorting through your house, and the slow, careful act of packing away pieces of a life we once shared.

Those tasks ground me. They remind me that what we had was real.

When you passed, part of me shut down. A quiet, stubborn part that refuses to move on... even now. It’s been seven months, and letting go still feels impossible. Some days, it feels like moving forward would mean leaving you behind, and I’m not ready for that.

At the same time, another part of me keeps going for Kenzo. That part shows up every day.. keeping him active, curious, discovering new places, new people, new moments of joy. I watch him laugh on rides, ask questions, take everything in with the open heart only a child can have. I carry both parts of myself at once - the one that is frozen in grief, and the one that keeps putting one foot in front of the other.

You haven’t come to me in my dreams for a long time, and I miss you deeply. I want to believe your spirit is still with us - quietly guiding us through the small, everyday decisions. The ones that don’t look significant from the outside, but feel heavy when made alone.

I carry regrets... about not seeing you enough, about the time I assumed we had. Those thoughts don’t shout. They linger quietly in the background, surfacing when everything else slows down.

In just a few weeks, Kenzo will start Year Two - his first school year without his dad. A milestone that feels far too big for such a small boy, and far too permanent for a loss that still feels unreal.

And yet, somehow, we keep moving forward.
Not with certainty.
Not with confidence.
Just one day at a time.

Maybe this is what grief looks like now - not collapsing, but carrying. Not forgetting, but learning how to live alongside the missing. Holding space for what was, while still making room for what must come next.

I hope you know that every step forward carries you with us.
Every decision.
Every quiet moment.
Every time Kenzo smiles and looks up, as if checking you’re still there.

We’re doing the best we can 
and we’re still walking, for you.

I miss you, Vic. Always.

— N