I received some heartbreaking news today.

But let’s start on a happy note. Last night was my ideal night out in Chicago. Celebrating my triumphant return to my favorite city, I attended an East Coast Swing dance with a live big band, in a stunning venue, with oodles of fabulous dancers. It was blissful in every way. I was thrilled to have found this welcoming community and successfully transferred the skills I refined over my eight months dancing with the Grand Rapids Original Swing Society. I fell asleep delighted and at peace in my new home.

As I woke up this morning, I glanced at the Facebook page of the Grand Rapids swing group. I smiled seeing beautiful photos of my friends dancing in Rosa Parks Circle, and felt a twinge of sadness that I was no longer going to be there regularly on Tuesday nights. And then I scrolled a little further down… And my heart broke.

Back in June, one of the regular swing dancers in Grand Rapids passed away suddenly in a motorcycle accident. In the aftermath of his death, we honored his life by inventing a dance move and naming it after him. And life went on.

Now, not even three months later, his wife has died. She ended her life.

I’ve been thinking about her all day. And I’ve been thinking that I need to write about this.

I did not know this young woman well, so I can’t claim to know exactly what she was feeling in her darkest moments. But as someone who lost a husband at a tragically young age, I can recall the moments of excruciating, debilitating grief that simply make you want to put an end to it all. I have been there.

I had my dark nights of the soul in the aftermath of Stephen’s death. There were two nights in particular that I vividly recall contemplating my demise. I felt incredibly lonely. I was convinced that I would never feel better. I didn’t want to re-imagine and rebuild my entire future. It certainly would have been easier to throw in the towel.

But every time my thoughts started to veer in that direction, this tiny little thought would pop into my head: “There is always hope.” And I clung to that idea, even when I didn’t feel like it or didn’t believe it.

I never planned to write about these dark times, because I am not proud of them. But in light of this tragic news today, I feel it is important that I do.

If you know someone who has lost a loved one, please reach out to them. Don’t think, “Oh, I will just be annoying them.” Grieving people need community. That’s how I got through my darkest days. I had family and friends surrounding me every step of the way.

• There was a night when my mother-in-law literally saved my life.
• There was a day when my therapist was calling people from my church to make sure that someone was at the house with me, so I wouldn’t be left to my own devices.
• There was another night that I called my grandmother at 3 am because I didn’t know what else to do, and she said I could call her any time.
• There was another day I called 988.

It was a battle I fought on and off for a couple months. And I don’t know that I would be here writing this today without the love and support of my incredible family and friends.

There have been many thoughts and emotions racing through my head today as I process this news and try to put my convictions into coherent words. It’s probably not my most eloquent blog post, but here’s what I’ve come up with:

My first message is to the family and friends of people coping with intense grief:

Please take the time to communicate with those who are grieving, even if you fear that you are being a bother. They need you, even if they won’t say it.

And my second message is to the grieving:

Please know that emotions are temporary states. They come and go like waves in the ocean. Your grief will never disappear, but you will learn how to ride the waves. Please don’t give up. There is always hope.

As I write this sitting in my rocking chair, looking out at the front yard of my beautiful home, with my cat sleeping peacefully beside me, I see just how far I’ve come. In two years, I’ve managed to cobble together a surprisingly satisfying life. It was a hell of a lot of work, but I did it. It is possible to find joy and peace after devastating loss. But I don’t think I could have done it alone.

We’ve all heard the old proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child.” I’m going to invent a new one:

It takes a village to heal a widow.

Widows too often suffer in silence. I implore all of you, please, be a part of that village.