Year Three of Grief: When the Fog Lifts and the Boundaries Settle

Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. It doesn’t politely move out when the casseroles stop coming or when the world decides you should be "better by now." It lingers, reshapes, and reveals—often in ways that are impossible to put into words.

Now, in year three after losing my husband suddenly, something unexpected has happened.

I’ve stopped trying to go back to who I was before.

In the first year, I was in shock. In the second, I was functioning. But now—now I see more clearly. Not just the loss of him, but the ways I used to give myself away. The emotional labor I carried for friends, for family, for church. The way I absorbed other people’s needs like it was my sacred duty, even when my soul was threadbare.

And now? I don’t have that space anymore.
I’m not sorry about it either.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”
—Proverbs 4:23 (NIV)

I don’t have the bandwidth to decode passive-aggressive texts. I don’t have the patience for one-sided conversations where I carry the weight of connection. I don’t have the tolerance to sit in rooms where I feel emotionally invisible.

So I isolate—but not out of depression.
Out of discernment.

“Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.”
—Matthew 7:6 (NIV)

When something feels draining, I listen to that now. I no longer convince myself that love means self-abandonment. I no longer believe that loyalty should require silence, or that kindness means tolerating spiritual or emotional starvation.

The version of me who bent over backward to keep people comfortable died with him.
What remains is someone quieter, stronger, and more boundaried.

“Let what you say be simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; anything more than this comes from evil.”
—Matthew 5:37 (ESV)

People say grief makes you softer—and sometimes it does. But it also makes you sharper. You notice who checks in, and who only checks out. You feel who fills you, and who simply takes. You learn that protecting your peace isn’t rude—it’s essential.

This is the hidden truth of year three:
It’s not about “moving on.”
It’s about moving inward.

I don’t show up just to show up anymore.
I don’t answer just to keep the peace.
I don’t stay connected just because we have history.

“Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.”
—Galatians 1:10 (NIV)

If your presence costs me my well-being, it’s too expensive.

Grief stripped me down to the studs. But in that hollow place, I’ve rebuilt a version of me who doesn’t perform, who doesn’t overextend, who doesn’t apologize for needing more.

And if that looks like distance?
So be it.

Because healing, I’ve learned, isn’t just about feeling better.

It’s about choosing better—for myself.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

—Psalm 34:18 (NIV)