By: Rebecca Witherspoon, July 2, 2025
There’s a moment when everything just … stops.
Not in the dramatic, slow-motion kind of way they show in movies. There’s no music swelling, no camera zooming in on your face. Just silence. Stillness. Maybe a nod. A short, sharp breath. And then, nothing.
You hear the words, but they don’t hit right away. Not because they’re unclear—no, they’re perfectly clear, and they may even be expected—but because to hear them makes it real. It’s that they’re so clear, so final, so devastating, your body and mind must buy you time to process. So, you go numb.
The doctor might keep talking. You might even nod along and even ask a few questions. You might think you’re holding it together. But something inside you has suddenly disconnected. There’s a haze between the moment before and everything that follows.
You catch yourself staring at the wall and you realize you didn’t actually hear the last three minutes of what they said. Or maybe you did, but it didn’t stick. It couldn’t.
It’s a strange thing—to feel so full of emotion that you actually feel … nothing. Like your system short-circuited. And in a way, it has. That’s how the mind protects you when the ground disappears beneath your feet.
You walk out of the building, and the world keeps turning. The barista next door is laughing. Someone is jogging with a dog. People are arguing and fighting about things that ultimately aren’t important. Life around you is continuing like normal. But your life just shifted into something else. Something not invited and unwelcome. And there’s no script for what to do next.
Later, you might get in the car and just sit there. You might drive without remembering how you got home. You might cook dinner on autopilot, not even tasting the food. The numbness doesn’t ask for permission. It just settles in, quietly, and wraps itself around your every move.
People mean well. They’ll say things, offer to help, check in. But you’re in a different time zone now. A different reality. You want to scream, to rage, to disappear. Or sleep until you can wake up and discover this was all just a really bad nightmare. Or maybe just go back five minutes before you heard those words and stay there.
The truth is nothing prepares you for this. Not love. Not strength. Not faith. You just … show up. You get through one minute, one hour. Then the next, and the next. You say “we’re okay” when you’re really not. You keep breathing because others need you to, and because you don’t know what else to do. You do anything to distract yourself from dwelling.
Eventually, the numbness starts to wear off. Or it cracks in places. And underneath it, the grief begins to stir. But so does something else—something you may not have expected—gratitude. Not the easy, everyday kind, but a deep, almost unspeakable kind. The kind that wells up when a friend checks in without asking for details. When someone drops off food without expecting a thank-you. When someone simply says, “I’m here,” and means it. A peace that surpasses all understanding.
Every kind word, every thought, every prayer—no matter how small—starts to feel like a lifeline. You realize how much it matters. You realize that even though people can’t fix things, their presence helps you carry the weight. And you silently thank them, even when you can’t find the words to say out loud.
The sharp edges of life get sharper. What matters most becomes crystal clear. And all the petty noise, the nastiness, the drama—it all fades. You stop caring about proving points, or being right, or entertaining bitterness. There’s no energy for it. There’s no point.
Because now, it’s about the here. The now. One moment at a time. One foot in front of the other. Being strong for someone you love, even as your own heart breaks. Holding their hand while you steady your own feet. Being present, even when it takes everything you have.
And this is just the beginning. The road ahead is unknown. There will be ups and downs. There will be moments of unbearable heaviness, followed by strange calm. It will be a rollercoaster—emotionally, physically, mentally. But knowing you’re not walking it alone makes all the difference.
There’s no map for what comes next. But with love surrounding you, kindness holding you up, and real people standing quietly in your corner, you keep going.
And that’s what matters now—love, being present, and the steady rhythm of choosing to show up—even in the face of devastation. Especially in the face of devastation.
You don’t have to know how to do it all. You just have to keep going and allow the kindness surrounding you to do what it was always meant to do—remind you that you’re not alone.
Musings By Rebecca 