Absence Has a Presence of Its Own

People often worry about talking about someone who has died.

That saying their name will reopen something painful.

That bringing them up will remind us they’re gone.

And if I’m being honest, before I lost Marc, I was one of those people too.

But here’s the truth:

We never forget.

Not for one second.

When you lose someone who was woven into your DNA, your every day, your routines, your language, your future…

you do not forget they are gone.

Not when you wake up.
Not when you make coffee.
Not when something funny happens.
Not when something terrible happens.
Not when you go to bed.

They are in everything.

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The harder part, at least for me, is something else entirely.

It’s the fear that I am hurting other people by continuing to talk about Marc.

Because I talk about him a lot.

To friends.
To family.
To coworkers.
To my kids.
To anyone who knew him.
To people who didn’t.

I talk about him because it brings me joy.

He was fantastic.
He was hilarious.
He was complicated.
He was mine.

We have a lifetime of stories, ridiculous moments, inside jokes, and memories that still make me laugh.

Talking about him makes him feel present.

It reminds me that love doesn’t end just because breathing does.

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But lately I wonder…

Is it too much for people?

Do they leave conversations thinking:

“That’s all she talks about.”

“Still?”

“It’s too sad.”

“It’s too heavy.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

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And maybe sometimes it isn’t me that feels like too much.

Maybe it just is.

It is the reality of missing someone who mattered that much.

I was with a group of friends last night—people who knew me through Marc, and one who knew me before Marc. All people who love both of us deeply, people whose lives were changed by him too.

Their adult kids were there too.

And I know this loss lives in them differently, but just as deeply. He mattered so much to them too.

Sometimes I wonder if seeing me is painful.

Not because of anything I’ve done—

but because I am tied to someone we all wish was still here.

Because grief does that.

It turns the people who understand most into both refuge and reminder.

Refuge and reminder…

that is a lot.

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We were celebrating happy things.
My 50th birthday.
An engagement.
Life continuing.

There was laughter.
Stories.
Love in the room.

And still…

he was SO missing.

The kind of missing that quietly hurts everyone a little.

Not because anyone said his name.

Not because I talk about him too much.

But because when someone so woven into a group is gone, their absence has a presence of its own.

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What people hesitate around is the fear that mentioning them will make us remember.

Because talking about Marc doesn’t come packaged in only funny stories.

Sometimes it comes with the hard parts too.

The way he died.

The aftermath.

Insurance companies.
Lawyers.
Family pain.
The losses that keep coming after the loss.

And yes… those things are hard.

And sad.

And a lot.

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But it’s also my life.

All of it.

The beautiful parts.
The brutal parts.
The love.
The grief.
The stories.
The wreckage.
The laughter.
The longing.

It all belongs to the same person.

And to the same love.

And if I’m being honest, it’s all beautiful.

It’s a testament to the love we all had for him.

The size of the void is proportionate to the vastness of the love.

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So if you’ve ever worried that talking about someone who died will make the people who loved them remember…

Please know:

We already remember.

What you might actually give us is a moment to feel them near again.

And if I talk about Marc too much?

I guess that’s the risk of loving someone who mattered that much.

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Sometimes the room gets quiet because grief is there.

But love is there too.

And both deserve space…

and both get space in my world.