I truly wasn’t searching for a relationship — and that’s how so many stories unexpectedly begin. I was buried in the chaos of nursing school, exhausted, overwhelmed, and convinced dating was a distraction I simply couldn’t afford. But one of my friends kept raving about this dating site where she’d met her future husband. I hesitated again and again, yet she promised to help set up my profile and convinced me to give it a try. Eventually, I caved.
Justin and I never officially “matched.” Instead, I stumbled across his profile while scrolling one evening. His bright smile and red hair caught my attention instantly, and I sent him a message before I could talk myself out of it. He replied — and the conversation felt effortless from the very beginning. After weeks of talking online, I finally felt comfortable enough to share my phone number. From that day forward, we texted constantly whenever we weren’t working or in class. A few weeks later, we decided to meet. Sitting across from him, I felt safe, understood, and strangely at home — like I’d just discovered someone who could become my favorite person.
I remember laughing so much during those early months. I had believed I knew what love was, but falling for Justin showed me how different real love feels. It wasn’t dramatic or rushed — it grew gently, day by day, until one afternoon I read a text from him and caught myself smiling, thinking, Wow… I love him. I’ll never forget the night he first said it out loud. It was April 13th, a Friday, and we’d gone to dinner with my mom to celebrate my 27th birthday — their first time meeting. Standing beside his car afterward, he pulled away from our hug, smiled, and said, “I love you.” Shocked, I blurted, “You do?” before grabbing him and whispering back that I loved him, too.
Falling in love isn’t something you decide — but choosing to show up for that love every day absolutely is. Like any whirlwind romance, ours had its imperfect moments, though I didn’t realize for months what shadow quietly lingered behind us.
One warm summer evening we sat together on the backyard swing, talking the way we always did, when I suddenly felt his mood change. With visible worry in his eyes, he told me he needed to share something important. My heart pounded as he buried his face in his hands and finally said he was a recovering addict — and had been clean for over a year. I rubbed his back, thanked him for trusting me with something so heavy, and told him I admired his strength. Most importantly, I promised I wasn’t leaving.
He wrapped me in a tearful hug, relieved I didn’t walk away. Why would I? He had beaten it — or so I thought. To me, he wasn’t his addiction. He was gentle, funny, compassionate, and full of quirks that made life lighter.
He loved his cat, Rigby. He’d cry if he accidentally hit an animal while driving. He spent hours gaming with friends, sent goofy Hamilton videos, and hugged me tightly in the kitchen just to make me laugh. He adored chicken tenders, sour candy, and dreamed of owning a Rally Blue Subaru WRX STI. He texted my mom to thank her for bringing me into the world. And he said “I love you” more times than I could count. How could someone like that be defined by anything other than his enormous heart?
At the time, I believed addiction was behind him — something conquered and filed away. Looking back, I realize how naïve that was.
Justin studied automotive engineering and worked at an auto parts store, living with his parents to save money. Summer meant more time together, and I soon felt woven into his family’s life — becoming “Aunt Margaret” to his niece and the baby sister who followed, sharing meals with his parents, spending evenings with his friends. I had never felt such belonging.
Then, eight months after we met, everything shifted. I sat on his bed waiting for him to come home from work when he entered, collapsed into tears, and clung to me. After long minutes, he finally whispered that he had relapsed. My heart broke. Addiction is ruthless — it convinces good people they are failures. I held him while he apologized again and again, reminding him we would face it together.
And somehow, we did — through that relapse and three more that followed. In between those storms, we graduated, found jobs, rented a perfect little house between our workplaces, and dreamed about weddings, babies with red hair, and a future that felt bright and close enough to touch.
Then, in an instant, everything stopped. On September 21, 2019, Justin overdosed. The days afterward blurred. My mom moved in because I couldn’t function. Friends called constantly. I had to be reminded to eat. Anger boiled inside me — at him, at myself, at the world — as I wrestled with impossible questions: Why didn’t we see it? Why couldn’t we save him?
Grief became a maze of unanswered whys. Not being religious, I struggled with the idea of connection after death. The greatest comfort came from a message Justin once wrote about energy — that nothing truly disappears, it only transfers — and somehow, that belief helped me imagine he still existed somewhere.
I’ve tried to carry him with me in small rituals: chicken tenders every 21st, vanilla cake on his birthday, Sour Skittles when I’m brave enough. I call out “subie” every time I spot one on the road. I tattooed his handwriting over my heart and his thumbprint on my wrist, as if he’s still keeping time with my pulse.
Most of all, I honor him by being outside. Nature grounded him during dark moments, and it grounds me now. That Christmas, I even registered a star in his name. When 2020 approached, I couldn’t face a new year he would never live in, so my mom and I drove to the Grand Canyon. At midnight, under his star, silence wrapped around us — and something inside me shifted.
Travel slowly became my way of carrying him forward. I visited national parks, spread some of his ashes in Glacier National Park, and honored our anniversary in the mountains. Road trips unfolded accidentally — from Ohio to Maine, Utah’s deserts, and everywhere in between. My ultimate dream is still Banff, the place we always planned to go together.
Grief changed me entirely. The numbness faded, replaced by a heavy acceptance that he isn’t coming back. Some days, all I can do is take one step, then another. But Justin — my love, my cheerleader, my best friend — still inspires me. I move forward because I want to live a life that would make him proud. And loving him, no matter how painful the ending, remains the greatest gift I ever received.
