At just 28 years old, I reluctantly became a widow after losing my husband, Kyle, to a long and hard-fought battle with cancer. It’s something no one ever plans for, and something no one ever wishes upon anyone. Suddenly, I found myself completely unmoored, floundering in a world that no longer made sense. I was lost, wondering how I could possibly continue living in a life that felt so far from the one I had envisioned.
The days after Kyle’s funeral were a blur. I felt like a numb zombie, letting the hours pass, desperately hoping the pain would ease. In the days immediately after his passing, I was surrounded by a steady stream of love—friends, family, neighbors—all bringing food, hugs, and words of comfort. Their presence was a balm, but once they left, the weight of reality returned. Life moved forward at its relentless pace, and I wasn’t ready. Coming home to our house—once vibrant with the two of us—felt unbearably cold and lonely. Wedding photos still lined the walls, his clothes remained in the closet, and his deodorant sat in the medicine cabinet exactly where he had left it. For fleeting moments, it felt as if he were just away on a trip, and would be back soon. But the truth was impossible to ignore: he was gone, forever.
For months after Kyle’s death, I avoided truly confronting my grief. I kept myself busily occupied to escape the emptiness inside. I traveled extensively, often gone one or two weeks out of each month—doing things I hadn’t been able to do during Kyle’s illness. I spent hours at the gym, which became my sanctuary and stress release. I poured my heart into building a nonprofit to support others facing cancer, hoping to channel my pain into something meaningful. On the surface, I seemed composed, even thriving—but inside, I was a whirlwind of grief, spiraling with heartache. Nights were often spent crying myself to sleep, whispering the same question over and over to God: Why me?
Gradually, I began the slow, painful work of finding myself again. I surrounded myself with people who uplifted me, who reminded me of the joy that still existed in the world. I am forever grateful for the unwavering support of my family and friends, who loved me through my highs and lows. Grief is unpredictable; it comes in waves, leaving you changed in ways both painful and transformative. My mom’s words echoed in my mind: “Kayla, there’s no book on this. Just take one day at a time.” And she was right—one day at a time became my mantra, my lifeline, and something I still remind myself of often.
Dating terrified me. I hadn’t dated since I was 16, and after losing Kyle, the thought of opening my heart to anyone felt impossible. Social media and dating apps seemed foreign and superficial, a world of judging books by their covers. I reluctantly tried Bumble, filling out a profile with a few photos, only to delete it the same day. It wasn’t for me. I wanted something authentic, real—someone found the old-fashioned way. I told myself I needed a year to truly heal before I could even think about moving on.
Then, a few weeks before Kyle’s first anniversary in heaven, I spent my favorite holiday, July 4th, at my parents’ lake home in northern Minnesota. Pelican Lake, with its giant island and weekend crowds, was alive with laughter and boats. My family friend Brittany and I set out on the pontoon, enjoying the sun and the water. We noticed a neighboring pontoon full of good-looking men, and I was mostly teasing Brittany to help her find a date—never imagining what would happen next.
He caught my eye immediately. By fate—or perhaps something greater—I realized we shared a mutual acquaintance. The world felt impossibly small in that moment, as though we had known each other forever.
“I’m mesmerized by your blue eyes,” he said. I laughed because I felt the same about him. Over the holiday, we ran into each other a few more times on the lake and eventually met at a local bar. It felt surreal—too good to be true. He was everything I had prayed for: kind, genuine, smart, and effortless. I never expected to find someone in the middle of one of Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes, yet there he was.
I had my reservations. Saying “I love you” felt impossible. I would always love Kyle, and telling someone else those words felt like betrayal. But Mitch, even though he had never been married, had loved and lost before. He understood. He respected my past. Slowly, day by day, I allowed myself to trust again.
Starting over in my late twenties is daunting. My life had already been rich with memories, and I had thought it would last forever. Yet starting over wasn’t as frightening as I imagined—it was exhilarating. I felt joy, love, and the warmth of being cherished again. Mitch accepted my past, including Kyle, and loved me wholly. He stepped into a life he didn’t sign up for, and in doing so, proved to me that it was possible to love again.
At first, our relationship stayed quiet. I avoided social media entirely, worried about judgment, worried it was “too soon.” I’d pick secluded restaurants and shops, always looking over my shoulder, secretly feeling as though I was betraying Kyle. But eventually, I realized the truth: Kyle was never coming back, and it was okay to find happiness. Letting go of that fear was liberating—it allowed me to fully embrace a new chapter of my life.
Last year flew by. Mitch and I spent weekends at the lake, nights out with friends, winter vacations in South Padre, Mexico, and Colorado. He brought joy into every day, supporting me on my hardest days and celebrating the good ones. More than anything, he loved me as I am, flaws and all.
This past June, our lives took a thrilling turn—we discovered we were expecting a baby girl. When I saw the positive pregnancy test, tears streamed down my face. I felt joy, but also a pang of guilt, remembering how much Kyle wanted to be a father. Yet I knew, somehow, he had a hand in this, smiling down on us. Our little girl is due just four days after mine and Kyle’s wedding anniversary—a sign, a reminder, a blessing.
Moving forward after losing your best friend and soulmate is terrifying. It feels like letting go of everything that once was. But the truth is, you never let go. Kyle will always live in my heart, in my memories, in the love I carry. And love, in its miraculous way, has shown me that life can continue beautifully.
No one chooses this path. I’m living proof that love after loss is possible. I am blessed to be loved by two extraordinary men—one who will always be a part of my past, and one who shares my present and future. Love, faith, and hope always prevail.
