“Don’t Tell Me to Move On – I’m Moving With“

After you lose someone, truly lose someone, people start to say the most astonishing things. “You have to move on,” they tell you, as if grief were a treadmill and I’ve simply refused to hit the start button. As if love has an expiration date. As if the person you lost becomes invalid the moment they stop breathing.

I know they mean well, bless their unprocessed hearts. I know they think they’re helping. But let me say it clearly, with all the fire in my still-beating heart: telling someone to “move on” is not helpful. It’s not kind. It’s not wise. It’s just… noise. Tone-deaf, impatient, awkward noise.

It’s been eight months today since he died. Eight months of navigating life as a “me” when I was so beautifully used to a “we.” I haven’t “moved on.” I’ve moved with. I carry him with me—his voice, his smile, his ridiculous happy socks, his calm presence that could soothe my nervous system faster than a Xanax. I know he’s gone. I’m not delusional. I’m not texting him or setting a plate for him at dinner. I’m acutely aware that I am here, still breathing, still waking up in a body that sometimes feels too heavy with absence. And he’s… somewhere else. Whatever dimension spirits hang out in after they’ve done their earthly tour. But he is not gone from me. He is threaded into my skin, into my stories, into the way I now look at the sky and say things out loud to no one, hoping he hears them.

But I still love him. Of course I do. Love doesn’t vanish with a death certificate. Love isn’t some online subscription that ends when the free trial does. It stays. It shifts. It finds new corners to echo in.

So no, I’m not going to “move on.” And honestly, why is everyone in such a rush? Is there a grief deadline I missed? A Google Calendar reminder that said “by May: stop crying and start dating a dentist named Mark”? Yes, one day there will be space for new love. For warmth. For dancing barefoot in a new kitchen with someone else. But let that happen when it’s ready, not because the world is uncomfortable with my sadness.

What I wish people would say instead is something like:
“Take your time. Heal.  Joy will come eventually.”
Because that, at least, holds space. That honors the complexity of loss, of memory, of the mess that is loving someone who’s no longer physically here. That recognizes the difference between moving on and moving forward with.

Let me process this in my own time. Let me laugh and cry in the same breath. Let me tell stories about him without you flinching. Let me grieve without being told it’s too much, too long, too intense. And for the love of all that is sacred and soft—let me love him still, because I do. Because he mattered. Because I matter, and so does the shape grief takes in my life. Because I did not choose for him to die.

And if you don’t know what to say, here’s a radical idea: say nothing. Or say, “I’m here.” Or say, “This must be really hard.” And maybe bring coffee. Or wine. Or just a warm, open silence.

Because grief isn’t something you fix. It’s something you honor.

So no, I’m not moving on. I’m just learning to walk this life differently, one memory at a time, one breath at a time, with love still very much in my bones.

And this piece—this truth—isn’t just mine. It’s also for his daughter, who feels the same pressure to “move on.” Who still carries the echo of his laugh and the warmth of his hugs. Who deserves the same right to grieve at her own pace, in her own shape, in her own time.

We’re both moving forward. But we’re doing it with love. With memory. And always—with him.