I’ve Travelled a Long Way Through Life, and Some of the Roads Weren’t Paved.

I have always loved this kind of humor.  Yet, years ago, I would have thought it funny because it goes against so much of the culture.  Today, the day following what would have been our 42nd anniversary, what strikes me is the last sentence: I have travelled a long way, and some of the roads weren’t paved.  These lines/wrinkles, the silver strands beginning to show, the way my heart sometimes carries a quiet weight — they all tell a story.

Some of the most meaningful lessons I’ve learned weren’t found on scenic highways, but on bumpy, dusty, uncertain backroads—the kind where you pray the tires hold and the engine keeps running. That’s where character is forged. That’s where faith is tested. That’s where you find out who you are when the map no longer makes sense.

There’s a strange pressure in our culture to hide or smooth over the journey — to act as if life has been a perfectly mapped route with no detours, potholes, or dead ends; to airbrush the wrinkles, mask the scars, dye the gray, and keep up the illusion of smooth sailing. But the truth is, some of the most defining parts of my life have come from the stretches that were the hardest to walk — especially the road I never asked to be on: the one without him.

That was the road that broke me open. Losing my husband—the love of my life, my anchor, my encourager, my person — was a detour I never saw coming. It’s the main road that wasn’t paved, the one I had no map for. Suddenly I was navigating grief, loneliness, and a thousand tiny moments where I had to figure out how to keep going without the one who had walked beside me through everything.

For much of my life, the road looked beautifully smooth. I had what many would call a “blessed life”—and it truly was:  a loving husband who was not just my partner, but my best friend; a beautiful family — our wonderful son and daughter, a great son-in-law, and three precious grandchildren; a lovely home filled with laughter and warmth;  a meaningful career that gave me purpose and joy.

The life we built was full of moments that made my heart overflow with gratitude. We had weathered challenges, of course, but we did it together, hand in hand. And then, everything changed on that October 2020 day when the road crumbled beneath my feet.

Suddenly, everything that had felt steady, safe, and sure came crashing down. I found myself standing on unfamiliar ground, surrounded by memories and shattered dreams, staring at a road I never wanted to walk: life without him.

That road wasn’t paved. It was jagged and steep, full of questions and aching silence. And it didn’t just test my strength—it redefined it.

Grief is not tidy. It doesn’t follow the rules or respect the calendar. It shows up in the smallest things and hits hardest in the quietest moments.

I’ve weathered heartbreak (literally, but that’s another story) and held on through grief. I’ve laughed in places where tears should have fallen and cried in moments when I didn’t expect to feel anything at all. I’ve had seasons of abundance and others where I ran on empty — emotionally, spiritually, physically. And through it all, I kept going. So no, I won’t hide the mileage.

I want you to see it, because, through it all, I’ve kept going — not because I’m strong on my own, but because grace meets me in every weary step. I want my life to show the miles—the love I’ve known, the losses I’ve endured, the grace that has carried me through both. I want others to know that even if the road is full of cracks and grief and hard questions, it is still a road worth walking. I want others to see the miles. To know the beauty that came before the breaking — and the resilience that’s been shaped in the aftermath. I want people to understand that while I may look different now, there’s a reason. I’ve carried deep love and deep loss. I’ve laughed loudly and wept quietly. I’ve walked paved paths and stumbled through rocky ones.

I’ve learned how to breathe again on that road. How to stand in the silence and still feel God’s presence. How to find strength in the memories and hope in the promises yet to be fulfilled. And I’ve learned that even on the roughest terrain, God still gives glimpses of beauty—unexpected kindness, quiet peace, surprising resilience.

I want my life to say, “You can make it, too.” I want my journey to remind someone else that it’s okay if the road is rough, you’re still moving forward.

Every wrinkle I wear is a road I’ve traveled. Every scar is a story I’ve survived. Every gray hair is a stripe of wisdom earned not in comfort, but in courage. I wouldn’t erase a single one. Because while I may not have arrived in perfect condition, I’ve arrived with a heart that knows the value of love, the ache of absence, and the miracle of each new day.  Because I’m still here. Still learning. Still loving.

Still traveling.

And though the road is different now, I’m learning to trust the One who walks with me. Isaiah 41:13 says, “For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.” That’s the promise I cling to when the road feels too hard. It reminds me I’m never walking alone.

So no, I won’t hide the journey. I’ve come a long way—and I’m still moving forward.