A Shadow of Myself and Hope
The kids and I dashed away for just a few days to where the sea meets the sand. Where the waves ebb and flow and sometimes crash upon the rocks. The view alone could restore a soul and remind it of its worth.
In this magnificent view and quiet time away, I discovered an interesting truth: maybe shadows aren’t something to fear—even when you barely recognize your own. In fact, the truth is there would be no shadow at all without the light behind us.
Our little respite trip was spontaneous, even for this spontaneous girl, and unexpected in every way. Maybe it was a bit chaotic (we brought our furry friends after all). God opened doors and made a way. Something in me knew we needed to go where we are called. Go for a breath of fresh salt air and the warm sun on our faces, sand beneath our feet. A break in the pattern. A moment to step away from all the reminders. To a place where I feel closest to God.
A quiet reset for hearts that have been carrying more than they can name. I can’t explain all the reasons why—some weight is just too layered to unfold out loud. But we’ve been holding a lot for a long time, and we have quite a week ahead. It felt like the right time to let the sea hold us for a while.
We slept in. We caught waves and rays. We walked. We stood in the ocean with waves lapping at our feet. We scoured the sand for an abundance of shells. We watched our dogs watch passersby and chase the waves.
Our old man, Clyde, sunbathed. Our pup, Rue, had her first dip in the waves—eager, unsure, delighted. She locked into the shadows of the seagulls floating above. She chased shells in the ebb and flow of the waves, trying to understand the salt-soaked world we loved. She’s learning to belong here, one paw print at a time. Just as I am learning to belong in a world without my husband, in the world as a widow. As much as we adore this new, growing furry friend, it still brings an unexpected sting, given Jon never knew her. I may have more to say on this later.
She’s new to our story, and yet she’s part of our grief and our healing. Somehow, it all fits.
My world still feels so wildly fractured—yet utterly breathtaking at times. I cannot explain it—But God.
Lately, the weight we’ve carried has begun to resurface—not to overwhelm, but to rise up gently, asking to be healed. Like the tides, it circles back this time of year. The calendar won’t let us forget. The sea seems to remember, too. The days when brain cancer became part of our story, and other dates where loss and grief show up.
Back in 2018, we went to the beach just weeks after my dad died. I remember standing in the ocean, already sensing that life was shifting in ways I couldn’t yet name. I didn’t know then how many more layers of loss were still ahead—or how much of myself would disappear into them.
Two years later, I stood there again—this time, just weeks after Jon’s brain surgery, when a mass was discovered in the ER during a pandemic as I waited in the car for hours.
We went to the shore, hoping to catch our breath and heal from brain surgery and process all that led to this terminal diagnosis. We were facing shadows then and fighting strong crashing waves (read more here). We had no idea how long the sands of time were on our side.
While at the beach to recover from the days surrounding the surgery, we spoke with the doctor who would lead six weeks of radiation. He answered our questions and informed us about what to expect during that time. Radiation to the brain felt unreal, terrifying, impossible. Those words echo still in my mind.
We weren’t just fighting cancer. I was slowly losing myself, and our future was fading from sight in the process. Even if I wasn’t the one receiving the treatments or wearing the gown, cancer touched me too—because we were one. Sacramentally, emotionally, in every way that matters. Jon’s suffering became mine, and I carried it with him in the quiet, unseen ways.
It changes you, even if you’re not the one being treated. It pulls you into its story whether you want to go or not. I quickly learned, I had to put my needs and everything else aside to give everything we had to my husband’s fight.
I ran into a dear friend on the beach one day during our respite/recovery trip in 2020, and as we stood on the shore, I shared with her the dark cloud that had entered our lives—right as a literal storm cloud rolled in. I didn’t much with many. Jon wasn’t quite ready to. It was his story. She and I could not help but notice the irony of that and of the rays of light that fought against and broke through beneath the dark clouds.
Talk about the ominous shadows that were looming while light found its way in.
I held myself together for Jon for how he wanted to walk down this path, for the kids, maybe even for myself in some odd way. I was doing what caregivers do—tucking myself into the background. I wasn’t THE story. I was the shadow in the room. Caregivers usually are. I am learning widows quickly become shadows, too. We are what is left of the story of us.
This weekend, five years later, the kids and I returned again to our family’s favorite place—the sea and sand. We have made a lifetime of memories along the Jersey shore. It doesn’t even matter which destination. There have been so many. The last time we were here was right after Jon died. It was hard to be back, but still quite different.
This trip was short and both new in some ways, familiar in others, and filled with winks and graces from above, especially when we stepped inside a new church for Mass on Sunday, named after a saint who reminds me so much of my dad.
After Mass, we had a conversation and received a beautiful, healing blessing from a visiting priest—someone we recognized during the homily who was loosely connected through a few degrees of separation and a town close to our home. The timing, the place, the names—all of it felt like a series of holy winks. A tender grace. A reminder that we are seen, even in the shadows. The time away may have even given some major clarity. Some questions have been answered.
Even when I feel compelled to share more about our journey, especially surrounding significant days, I hold back—as if some details are meant for only God and me. Parts of the story are too complex to relive. Too hard to believe. Too hard to articulate for others to fully grasp the gravity of their impact. Sometimes I still do not fully comprehend all we endured including reconciling those who have left us when we needed them most.
Sometimes, my kids share that they don’t either. God has filled the lack.
So while I have thoughts about all the details of what transpired over this week and the days five years ago when brain cancer entered our story, I won’t share all of that here.
What I feel called to share is this…
Monday morning, I stood on the rocks before we packed up to leave the beach. I stood looking out over the water as the sun was rising in the sky behind me. The water glistened as the seagulls dove for their prey.
I watched the waves crash and noticed how the rocks that had taken the most beating were somehow smoother, softer, and some even slippery. What a juxtaposition. That’s me, I thought. Weathered, yes. But maybe, by grace, becoming more tender in the process—even if I sometimes slip back into the sadness.
Weathered but still standing. Not quite the same, but still here. I thought of my dad. It was the same day we buried him in 2018. And I thought of Jon, it was the day I learned it was likely we were dealing with an aggressive terminal brain cancer, and a surgery would happen in two days—sooner if necessary—in 2020.
I watched the waves and was transported in time. I flashed back to years ago—standing near the jetty, holding our toddlers’ hands as we gathered shells. Then, to the time Jon and I brought our first pup, Gracie, to a similar spot, watching her perch on the jetty as if she belonged to the sea. And now, here we are again—with our new pup tracing paw prints where old ones once were. The mind holds memory, and sometimes it pulls at the heart in unexpected ways, reminding us of what we’ve loved, lost, and still carry.
These shores and memories live in every fiber of my being.
I snapped a picture or two of the rocks to remember the moment.
I noticed the shadow. I tried to capture it, but I didn’t really recognize it. I wondered if it was just me, or if others do not see themselves in their shadow either.
I really am only a shadow of myself anymore. Still only half of myself. This is the path of widows (or any grieving human who lost someone woven into their life). A spouse woven into your life is a void that cannot be filled.
I don’t recognize myself in pictures anymore, let alone in my shadow.
Such a strange feeling.
Each trip we take, every family photo we capture—he’s missing from them. And sometimes, I feel like I am, too, even if I am there. I’m still finding pieces of myself. Still trying to remember the sound of my own soul. Still asking who I am now—outside of caregiving, beyond widowhood.
People still ask what happened. How it all began, what it was like, and how it felt to watch my husband die. No one asks much about what it is like to live without him. I am still in the shadow of this loss. Perhaps it’s too hard to wait for the answer. I am still trying to figure out how to live without him.
So I freeze.
I’m less interested in retelling all the details of what happened, and more focused on sharing what may help those who, like me, faded quietly into the background—and are still trying to come back into view. Because I don’t want to give a play-by-play of what really led to our loss. We didn’t want to share all the details back then either. None of it mattered when the only thing that did was living while your person was dying. Honestly, I’m not interested in recounting suffering just to satisfy curiosity or rehash the story.
I’ll never forget what a counselor on Jon’s hospice team once told us: “You don’t have to share all the details each time someone asks. Retelling can reopen trauma, in ways we don’t need and people often hear what fits their own perspective—not necessarily your experience or truth.”
I won’t forget those words or the permission they gave Jon and me. They still guide how I protect our/my story. We can still share important messages without sharing all the details and all the hard parts.
What I do want is to help the ones who feel invisible in the wake of tragedy. I want to speak life into the hearts of the caregivers who become shadows of themselves. The widows (grievers) are trying to rebuild from the rubble. The women/loved ones who’ve kept everyone else breathing but forgot how to exhale for themselves.
I want my words to offer all I wish I had: words of comfort, reminders of hope, and permission to not disappear—along with space to grieve for as long as needed.
So as I watched the waves roll in on this (Monday) morning, I looked at the shadow that stared back at me—not with shame, but with a strange kind of gratitude.
I may not fully recognize her. I lost so much of her. But she’s still standing. That means even if Jon is not, I’m still here. Still trying and giving my best. I am still healing even while still grieving.
Because even in the shadows, the light still shines.
And if you’ve been there or if you are there now, I see you. To every caregiver who faded quietly into the background…to every widow trying to find herself again…You are not forgotten. You are still here, slowly learning to find yourself in a sea of shadows, memories, and images of what was again.
I stood there and thought back to the night before and how I had let the waves crash at my feet as we finished the day collecting shadow-colored shells—the kind that only reveal their beauty as they’re unearthed by the tide. Each one carried a quiet story, shaped by the churn and hush of the sea. Their colors deepened as the sun sank low, and we held them in our hands like unexpected treasure.
A collection came home with me to remember our time and honor how the broken pieces I discovered on this trip are trying to fit back together, or how they no longer fit.
I found the most beautiful shell—a large black shell among so many white versions of the same shape. It was the only one I really wanted to have, even though I found a collection I loved. However, when we arrived home, we realized it had somehow been lost in transit. And my heart sank—the irony of leaving behind what I could no longer have wasn’t lost on me. Was that shell only a shadow?
What a contrast.
As the sun lowered, the sky had burned orange—bold and tender—and I thought of the shadows of birds stretching across the sand, wings wide against the fire-lit sky. A light that doesn’t just warm, but one that refines. I thought of the Refiner’s fire. Of how even what scorches can also sanctify.
Maybe the shadows aren’t something to fear. Maybe they’re proof that light was here, and still is.
Heather lebano
Maybe the shadows aren’t something to fear. Maybe they’re proof that light was here, and still is. Even in what feels lost or hidden, something in me keeps rising—soft-winged, slower than before, hopefully a bit softer than before, like the rocks polished by crashing waves, but still moving toward the light, still trying to find herself after the storm.
Sometimes the hope isn’t loud or obvious. It’s found in the doing. In the act of writing, of noticing the curve of a shell or the shadow stretched across the sand. It’s in the paw prints beside mine, the breath of sea air, the choice to go, to move, to stand still and feel. Grief moves like the tides—pulling back, crashing forward—and somehow, so do I. The light behind the shadow reminds me I’m still here. Still healing. Still finding beauty in what’s broken open.
Maybe that is the hope.
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” —John 1:5
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