By: Alex Fernandez
Let’s talk about widowhood’s least-wanted gift (not that it has any real wanted gifts): the dreaded firsts. They come uninvited, each one more gut-wrenching than the last, like a horror sequel that never ends. It’s a year filled with emotional booby traps—first holidays, first birthdays, first anniversaries, and other “celebrations” (spoiler: zero celebrating here). Father’s Day? Donuts with Dad? Hard nope. Watching our son bring that flyer home and seeing his sad expression made me want to hurl donuts at a wall. Can we PLEASE rename it? It’s not just for my boy; it’s for every kid missing their dad.
Oh, did I mention you go through all this in a fog? Think Bird Box: blindfolded, hoping you’re headed in the right direction while grief jumps out yelling “surprise, b!tch!” You’re just wandering around with a fucked-up GPS that arrived from Wish, trying to survive one emotional ambush at a time. And by the way, firsts don’t end after the first year—year one is just the welcome wagon that “prepares” you for the long road ahead.
So for this blog, let’s stick to a few of the big ones from year one. Buckle up—it’s a bumpy WTF ride.
Some of the Worst Firsts
Besides realizing this wasn’t some twisted prank and my husband wasn’t going to burst through the door yelling, “I’m home! Where are my sack of potatoes?” (an inside joke and game he had with the boys), there were some next-level firsts that hit harder than I could have ever prepared for.
The First Time You Have To Tell Your Kids Daddy Is Not Coming Home
Nothing—and I mean ABSOLUTELY NOTHING—prepares you for the first time you have to tell your kids, “Daddy is not coming home.” One of the biggest WTFs so far. The look on their faces, the tears, the wailing, the utter disbelief that their dad—their hero, the fun parent—was never, EVER going to wrap his arms around them again. It felt like the hand of God reaching in and pulling out my heart.
Now, fast-forward a few days to the funeral. By the grace of God, my youngest had fallen asleep and missed most of the heaviness. But later that week, when he noticed he hadn’t seen his dad in a while, he asked me during bedtime prayers, “When is Daddy coming home?” I had to break the news—again—that Daddy wasn’t coming home (as if the first time wasn’t bad enough), and his response? “I wish I was dead too, so I could be with Daddy.”
Hearing those words from my seven-year-old...there are no words to describe how truly excruciating and painful that moment was, for both of us. I wanted desperately to sing him my Puerto Rican “Sana, Sana” song—the one we sing to fix all boo-boos. But grief isn’t a scraped knee or bruised elbow, and there’s no magic song to make such heartache go away. His pain, so raw and real, tore through me, knowing I couldn’t carry it for him. All I could do was hold him tight and let him cry, feeling like my heart was breaking a thousand times over and secretly hoping that time could somehow heal his wounds.
The First Time You Crawl Into Bed Knowing No One’s Coming to Join You
No more midnight talks, stolen blankets, or soft kisses while you sleep—just you, an empty pillow, and a silence that practically screams, “Get used to me.” Nights are the worst because it’s like you’ve lost the ability to fall asleep, and now it’s just you, your brain, and a slideshow of every memory you’ve ever made together on loop. Nights spent laughing, cuddling, arguing over who forgot to take out the trash, making up, and building your own little world.
For years, I stayed on my side of the bed, hoping maybe one day I’d wake up and he’d be there, exhausted from another day of “catching the bad guys.” But that day never came, so eventually, I downsized from a king to a queen bed. I figured if my nights
were going to feel empty, at least they’d be cozier. New bed, zero memories attached—and hey, fewer blankets for me to have stolen, right? Think again, the boys took up that mantle.
The First Time You Realize You Can’t Remember Their Voice or Laugh
I’m not sure if this hits everyone in year one or sneaks up later like an unwelcome guest. For me, it happened toward the end of the first year—or maybe it was early year two (thanks, widow brain). I was sitting there, minding my own business, when it hit me: WTF, I can’t remember my husband’s laugh. And this man had a laugh that could fill a room—one of those big, loud, can’t-help-but-join-in laughs. Realizing I couldn’t hear it anymore felt like getting hit by a truck.
So there I was, mentally hitting “rewind” on every memory, but it was like a silent movie with no captions. Just as I started spiraling, thinking, I’m never going to hear it again, I heard our oldest son laughing downstairs. And there it was—my husband’s laugh, clear as day, coming through our twelve-year-old boy. It was the most beautiful, bittersweet moment. I cried—no, I ugly cried—because while I knew I’d never hear my husband’s laugh again, I could hear it through our son. It was the gift I didn’t know I needed.
The Sneaky Firsts Nobody Warns You About
Then there are the firsts that hit out of nowhere, the ones nobody bothers to warn you about, or maybe can't remember to.
First Grocery Trip Alone.
Who knew a simple grocery run could trigger a full-blown anxiety attack? My husband used to be the one who shopped and somehow always came home with random things that were “on sale”—like the time he brought home ten boxes of
Kraft Mac and Cheese. We didn’t even eat mac and cheese like that! Now, after he passed, just seeing those boxes felt like a punch to the gut. These days, I stick to online orders; the few times I venture in-store, I walk the aisles thinking, this should be him, not me.
First Time Laughing Without Guilt.
The first time I sort of recall (widow brain strikes again) laughing and enjoying myself after he passed, I was at a wedding, having a great time—until one of our favorite songs started playing. And just like that, a WTF moment hit (someone really should have yelled “Incoming!”). My chest tightened, and the guilt hit hard. How dare I have fun, dance, drink, laugh? He wasn’t here, and it felt wrong that I was. All I could do was sit down, cry quietly, and feel like an unfaithful accomplice to my own happiness.
First Time Checking That Widow Box.
Let’s talk about the reality sucker-punch known as the “Widow” checkbox. WTF! It’s like the designer of that box should be sentenced to walking barefoot on hot coals. The first time I saw it, at a doctor’s office, I just stared at it, heart sinking, trying to keep my composure. Even now, years later, checking that box still stings. Whoever came up with it? Let me know so I can personally mail them those lava rocks.
First Holiday Without Them.
You thought the “widow” box was bad? Try surviving the holidays. There I was, forcing a smile, pretending everything was normal while mentally dodging all the “from Dad” gift tags. I kept bringing the kids to family gatherings, thinking they needed it. Turns out, I missed the mark.
One day, my eldest dropped a truth bomb: he didn’t want to go anymore. “It fucking hurts,” he said when I asked why he didn’t want to go to our friend's house for a family gathering. And you know what? He was right. I was so busy faking it for them that I didn’t realize they were faking it too (insert a giant neon WTF—how did I miss this?). Watching other kids with their dads was just salt in the wound.
Now, we do holidays our way. We say “yes” or “no” based on what we can handle. No forced smiles—just doing what feels right for us.
First Wedding You Attend Solo.
Watching others promise “forever” feels like rubbing salt in a very raw wound. And realizing you’re flying solo? Oh, joy. You’re there, hoping you don’t end up at the random-people table and trying to hold it together during the vows. My husband was the king of small talk, but me? Not so much. Without him, the whole “mingling” thing felt like a chore.
And then come the slow songs. No one to pull you onto the dance floor or whisper, “Remember how beautiful you looked at our wedding?” Just me, sitting there with a glass in hand, feeling every bit like the lone ranger. Thank goodness for the open bar! I was so thankful for the friends who kept me laughing between drinks, but the whole day was just one big reminder that “forever” doesn’t always go as planned.
Grief Hurts Like a Motherf*cker
Year one? It’s like running a marathon barefoot on broken glass. Every "first" rips open the same wound, never giving it a chance to heal. Just when you think you’ve survived one, another sneaks up, kicks you in the teeth, and says, “Surprise Motherf*cker! Didn’t see that coming, did ya?”
You’ll want to curl up and disappear—and that’s okay. But somehow, you keep getting up, brushing your teeth (most days), and showing up. For me, it was our two boys. They needed me, and as much as I didn’t realize it at the time, I needed them even more. They became my lifeline and my saving grace.
Navigating the Messy Rollercoaster
Here’s the thing: grief isn’t a straight line. It’s more like riding a wooden rollercoaster in the dark, full of sudden drops and unexpected twists that throw you off balance. And just when you think you’re steady, bam—WTF?!—another wave crashes in, reminding you that grief doesn’t care about timing. Some days, you’ll feel like a warrior; other days, you’ll be crying over mismatched socks, an untouched Monopoly piece, or even a freaking box of Mac and Cheese.
And why is it a WTF moment? Because it’s so damn random. One minute, you’re fine, the next, you’re crying in the pasta aisle, ambushed by memories you didn’t see coming. Let yourself feel it all, because those pesky grief waves don’t give a flying f*ck where you are or what you’re doing—they just hit.
Over time, the waves do lessen. Not in the punch they pack (that’s different for everyone), but in how often they show up. As the saying goes, “The only way through it is to go through it”—or is it the other way around? Damned widow brain (and that’s a blog of its own).
To the Non-Widows Reading This
If you know someone going through these firsts, just show up. Please skip the clichés (and for the love of all things holy, no “at least” statements). We know you mean well, but sometimes just being there means more than any words. If we reach out, don’t brush us off; it took a lot to get there. And if you’re not sure what to say, a simple “How are you?” works wonders.
And please, don’t avoid talking about our person. We want to remember them, laugh about them, say their name—it’s healing for us. Ignoring their memory just makes it worse. Heads-up: grief isn’t a finish line, so if you check in once in a while, we’re more grateful than you know.
To My Fellow Warriors
To those deep in the trenches of firsts, take it one breath at a time. And to those a few (or a lot) of years in, I’m sure you’ve noticed those “firsts” are still popping up (like, WTF, are they on a subscription plan?!). Every single one you survive proves your strength and resilience, even on days it doesn’t feel like it.
I don’t know about any of you, but I for shit sure never got my widow’s manual in the mail. Or did I, and I just can’t remember? Either way, I’m out here winging it just like the rest of you, taking it one minute at a time when I need to. So, give yourself grace.
One day, one first, one awkward moment at a time. And when you finally laugh again, don’t feel guilty—let yourself feel the good feelings, too. You’re not just surviving—you’re living, in the most badass way possible. Love you!
Side Note:
As I’m editing this blog, I just had another “first”—realizing (and then trying to change) that I kept writing “MY” son(s), boy(s), instead of “OUR.” When the hell did that start, and how long have I been doing it? Grief’s little surprises never end.
Thank you for your support and for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this helps in some way.
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