Grief in the Second Year of Loss of a Spouse

Is it Worse than the First Year?

There is an inexplicable intensity in the grief of losing your life partner, soul mate, lover, father of your children, best friend, and business partner. Even the long haul of 18 months of caregiving, filled with hope and determination, could not soften that devastating blow—the nights spent sitting alone after the evening ministrations were raw, stark, and confronting.

I was acutely aware of the reality of what lay ahead. He always carried hope on his once strong and muscular shoulder, but the truth of what would come loomed ominously, staring back at me like an unyielding shadow.

I found myself contemplating what was on the horizon. As if the struggles we had already faced were not enough, I was painfully aware that the worst was yet to come.

However, I tried to rationalise my thoughts. Surely, the 18 months spent grieving the slow loss of my love as cancer steadily claimed him was, in itself, a form of grieving. His death would ultimately be a sweet release for us both. His suffering would finally cease, and he would soar to a better place, a fantastical notion that somehow comforted me.

The days that followed those final moments were raw and viscerally painful, an anguish I had never experienced before. It took my breath away and settled like a heavy rock in my chest.

I found myself contemplating whether to join him. The days dragged on, fraught with desperation in my search for comfort. Tragically, there was none, and eventually, I succumbed to medical intervention.

Giving Myself Time

I gave myself a year—one year of medication to address the PTSD, depression, and anxiety, coupled with a year of financial commitment to an online support group for widows and surviving partners.

I read everywhere that the second year is often worse than the first, but I felt pretty gung-ho about my progress. I was doing the work. I was grieving, I was rebuilding, and I was transitioning through my self-prescribed seven stages of grief.

1. Shock · 2. Denial · 3. Anger · 4. Bargaining · 5. Depression · 6. Acceptance and Hope · 7. Processing grief.

Today marks three days away from 21 months since I lost my beloved B, a moment that irrevocably changed my life, and I am not okay. Yet, it is acceptable to not be OK, according to the grief pundits who offer wisdom. I am off the medications—having conquered that demon.

I have managed to cure my gastric issues through natural methods. I kicked the prescription meds to the curb. However, this physical pain is an entirely different level of challenge. Neck, shoulders, arms, lower back—each area is a source of physical discomfort that feeds yet another layer of depression and fatigue.

Antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications serve their intended purpose. They prevent you from jumping off the edge of a cliff but also suppress your grief and emotions, keeping you steady but numb.

After three months of slow and steady withdrawal, I feel as if I have returned almost to the beginning of my grief journey. Released from the haze of medication, I find myself reliving those most dreadful moments with startling clarity. So, I continue forward. I avoid Facebook memories, voice messages, and photo montages courtesy of Apple and YouTube.

I take the urn with his ashes down from the shelf in the hallway, where it has sat since it was brought home to me. You see, I’ve been avoiding eye contact since that fateful day.

As time passes, I find that the tears and the pain visit me often but only linger for a short while.

Slowly Healing and Finding a Way Forward

My days in the Batcave of despair are diminishing, and I am slowly becoming stronger. "Thrive, don't just survive."

As I head into my third year after losing my beloved B to the big C, I've adopted these words as my mantra for the future.

Initially, the idea of thriving felt impossible—even somewhat offensive. Just surviving each day was a Herculean task that required immense effort.

But gradually, I realised that my beloved B wanted more for me than mere survival. He wanted me to live fully, to rediscover joy in life, to create a new existence rich with meaning and filled with the beauty of cherished memories and new experiences.

So, is the second year of grief worse than the first?

It isn’t necessarily worse, but it is different. In the first year, you're wrapped in shock and numbness. The world feels surreal, as if you're watching your life unfold from a distance. The pain is sharp, but a protective veil tempers its impact. The rituals of grief—funerals, memorials, the first holidays without them—give you purpose, even as they break your heart.

But by the second year, that initial shock has worn off. The numbness fades, leaving behind the raw, unfiltered reality of life without them. There’s no veil to soften the edges anymore. The world keeps turning and moving on, and so must you, but the void they left only seems more palpable. You’re no longer bracing for impact—you’ve already crashed, and now you’re left to pick up the pieces. This is when the weight of grief shifts from something that happens to you to something you carry. It’s heavier in its way because it feels more permanent.

The second year is about learning to live in the aftermath. You realise that life will never be the same, yet it continues. People expect you to be healing and getting better, and maybe, on the surface, you are. But underneath, there’s a loneliness in that expectation because your heart still aches. There’s a deep understanding that this pain is now woven into the fabric of your life. It doesn’t go away; it just changes.

So, is it worse? It's not necessarily worse—just more profound. In the second year, the focus shifts from merely surviving the loss to figuring out how to coexist with it. The pain becomes less about shock and more about endurance. It’s not the intensity that defines it now but the depth and permanence, and that brings its own kind of challenge.

So, is the second year of grief worse than the first? I wouldn’t call it better; it's just different. The initial shock and numbness have faded, but now the reality of the loss has settled in, and that can feel heavier in its way. It's not as sharp but cuts deeper, leaving you to navigate a new normal that doesn't feel like home.