During the pandemic, my husband Brent bought a used Jon boat to escape the confinement of lockdowns — to find a sense of peace in nature.
On July 10, 2020, two hours after he took it out for a test drive, the police showed up at my door. Brent was missing. Two days later, EquuSearch found his body. He had drowned. He left behind two young sons, ages 11 and 3.
I was 36 — and suddenly, a widow.
In the days after his death, I moved through the world in a daze. The grief was crushing, but it wasn’t just that. I began to feel lost and unmoored in a way that surprised and frustrated me. I expected the sorrow. What I didn’t expect was the disorientation, the sense that I no longer recognized the world, or myself in it.
After all, I had strong friendships, a deeply fulfilling role as a newly appointed assistant professor of social work at the University of Houston-Downtown, and a clear sense of purpose as a researcher. I couldn’t understand it — how I could be so surrounded, so rooted in meaning, and still feel like I was disappearing.
