The Memoir I Never Meant to Publish
The letter I wrote at 26 became the foundation for the life I have today.
Twenty-four years ago, I sat in a pickup truck on a quiet hillside one winter night.
I had come to feel close to my husband, who had died two years earlier.
My best friend.
My high school sweetheart.
His grave wasn’t in a public cemetery. It rested on a hill overlooking the family farm where we had once planned to build a home.
I went to that hillside often to write to him.
It was the only thing that could bring the breath back into my body.
Release the pressure from my bones and loosen the knots in my gut.
Move the thoughts trapped inside me out into the world.
He was the one person I needed to talk to—and he wasn’t there.
Writing became the bridge.
The excerpts below are from a letter that began as a graduate school memoir assignment. I tucked it away in a drawer for almost a quarter of a century.
As part of my final grade, I had to read the letter aloud in front of the class. It was one enormous step in my healing process.
I never imagined that I would one day share it with the world.
I don’t think I could ever publicly share the letter in its entirety, but I have carefully selected the portions that allow the heart of the story to remain intact.
Reading it now, I realize I wasn’t really writing about grief.
I was writing about gratitude.
I was writing about learning how to live again.
Excerpts from a letter written by a 26-year-old widow
Dear Shawn,
"Sometimes I forget how peaceful and beautiful it is up here overlooking the woods and ponds. I've been so busy and I've been wanting to talk to you about everything that is going on with me, but it is hard to find the time.
I know you have been watching and already know how I'm doing, but it helps me think more clearly when I write to you.
I know in movies you always see people standing over a headstone and talking into the air to their lost husband or wife, but do people really do that? I'd feel silly standing out there in the snow and cold to talk to you for an hour, especially up in this windy field. I'll just sit inside my warm truck, listen to some of our favorite songs on the radio, and write to fill you in on what's new with me..."
"I was just reading some of the things I've written to you since you left 2 years ago. I can't believe how much my life has changed in such a short time. I have had to face some really tough decisions on my own. I wish I could have talked to you to get some advice..."
"Looking back, I have realized how much you helped me during all of the important moments in my life. Your spirit and laid-back attitude towards everything helped me through so much when we were together.
You taught me not to waste time worrying about everything else that you can't change. Just do what you can and... whatever happens, happens.
Your words helped me through it all..."
"Your confidence in me, and your knack for making me realize that I was the only one putting pressure on myself, gave me the confidence to go on. Looking back, I am proud of my achievements, but I know I could not have done it without you.
Repeatedly you told me, 'Don't worry about what other people think. Just do what makes you happy.'"
"You shared my love of rural Maine and the desire to raise a family in the country. We had found our cozy, simple life. Our family would have roots and traditions and a connection to the land that went back generations.
I was teaching down the road at the school we attended together, and the school our future children would later attend. Of course, I have painfully let go of that dream now, but I feel blessed to have shared that experience with you, if only for a short time..."
"You would be so mad at me if I sat around being miserable, so I am giving it my best shot. Each little thing I do now, each step that is new, helps me grow stronger."
"The hardest decision I had to face on my own was whether or not I should stay at our farmhouse.
At first I did not care about anything. I was just existing.
Nothing mattered.
However, you can't go on like that forever.
Something inside does not let you..."
"I felt an urge to start over and discover new dreams, but didn't know how..."
"Luckily, I started to think about what you would want for me. The house would not be as important to you as my happiness or health. I thought about what you would say to me, and I decided to move home with my parents before I made any big mistakes..."
"I started working out again and eating better, and I tried to get back to things I used to enjoy like drawing and painting.
As time went on, I was stronger, but this was causing new anxieties.
I felt ready to move on with a new life, but I agonized over the question of what that new life would be..."
"Lost... pressured to do something but not knowing which direction to head next.
I cut myself off from friends you and I had together and was trapped in my bedroom with my thoughts..."
"I kept hearing the words you repeated to me during your last three weeks in the hospital: 'Let's go!' 'Just take care of it.' 'Don't waste any more time!' It was time to move forward, but I did not know which way to go.
I needed an escape from my old life...
I needed to redefine myself..."
"I knew my heart was aching for something new... a chance to become a whole person again and face the world on my own.
I found a rental ad in the paper for a small cottage on Unity Lake.
Could it be that simple? Strangely, the tears began to dry in my eyes..."
"I knew you would tell me to just try it and not worry so much. Go with your gut feeling. I heard your voice telling me to stop wasting time, stop stressing out, and I decided to go for it."
"I quickly found that moving was the best thing I could have done for myself.
The cottage is perfect for me.
You know how much I love the water and the outdoors.
Now I can kayak or ski right outside the house.
It's just me... down to earth, quiet, and uncomplicated.
There is no room to be lonely.
I have found my 'self' that was gone for so long, and it keeps me company."
"Even though you are gone, I am so grateful that I still can hear your calming and reassuring words in my head. Your spirit still carries me through my life."
"I needed to thank you for helping me have the courage to move into my own place and start taking care of myself again.
I know you will help me with the next big challenges I face..."
"I have to write a memoir, but I can't decide what to write about.
I could write about our eight years together...
I could write an amazing story about how you inspired everyone while you were in the hospital. You would not even let cancer get you down….
I could pour my heart out about my hell during the raw months after you were gone, but who would want to read that?
I don't know though. I can't write about depressing things.
If I write a book or memoir, I want to inspire, not make other people feel sad."
"Maybe I could write about learning to drive a motorcycle or snowmobile. I tried snowmobiling this winter for the first time and I loved it. My new friend John brought me up north and the views up there were amazing. I have been going up to Jackman, renting a sled, and meeting some really wonderful people. We ride up in the mountains and all the way to Canada.
Maybe I will write about that..."
To the 26-year-old me sitting in the pickup
Dear Jen,
Shawn had it right all along.
His words became the quiet soundtrack of your life.
You are still the responsible one.
You still carry too much.
You still mistake being busy for being valuable sometimes.
But you also carry his voice.
"Don't worry about what other people think. Just do what makes you happy."
"You are the only one putting pressure on yourself."
"Let's go."
"Just take care of it."
"Don't waste any more time."
And you didn't.
You gave yourself permission to let Shawn's voice become louder than the voices that wanted to keep you stuck—the ones that whispered to play it safe, be perfect, follow the expected path, and wait until someday.
You learned much earlier than most people that tomorrow is never promised and that even the best-laid plans are only an illusion of control.
The time to live is now.
You promised yourself—and him—that you would live a full life for both of you.
And you have.
The same threads that carried you through those first two years have quietly woven themselves into the life you have today.
You kept choosing to move forward.
To learn.
To experience.
To heal in nature.
To care for your body.
To take the next step, even when it felt scary.
To say yes instead of waiting for the perfect time.
What you don't know yet is that your body will carry this grief long after your heart begins to heal. Years later, after holding everything together for so long, you'll find yourself living with physical pain and a slipped disk.
But you'll discover Pilates—not as exercise, but as healing.
It will teach you to breathe again, to trust your body again, and to move through life with strength instead of fear.
It will change you so deeply that you'll step far outside your comfort zone, become certified to teach it, and spend years helping other people reconnect with their own breath and bodies.
You will breathe again.
That new friend, John, who took you snowmobiling...
He became your husband.
Your partner in adventure.
Your best friend.
He doesn't let you dwell in stress for very long either.
He reminds you to laugh.
He reminds you to go.
And after all these years, he's still your biggest supporter.
He's your gift. He doesn't believe in waiting for "someday." To him, dreams are meant to be lived. Together, you've built a life by choosing them again and again.
And you will build a family.
You'll have a son someday.
One day, you’ll discuss school, stress, and workload with him.
And he will echo Shawn's words back to you:
Worry is a waste of time.
You still live in Maine.
You built the farm you always dreamed about around an ordinary home, and now alpacas peek through your windows.
You will hike to waterfalls.
You will sleep on your boat in the harbor.
You're still a teacher, and after all these years, kindergarteners still think you're magic.
You finally made it to Germany.
You've traveled farther than you ever imagined.
Those colored pencil drawings of palm trees and turquoise water that you used to sketch...
They're no longer drawings.
They're memories.
And through it all...
You never stopped writing.
The memoir you thought you couldn't write was never really about grief.
It was about gratitude.
It was about learning to live again.
You just didn't know it yet.