Last week I wrote about how excited I was to be heading off on a holiday with my family and it was a wonderful break.
I have a close family and adore my three nephews. Spending time with them playing on the resort waterslide, watching them learn about a different culture, even accommodating four-year-old cranky tantrums (when routine is broken and nap times are not strictly complied with) made the holiday so meaningful and fulfilling.
My family never judge or question my grief. In fact, they can often work out when I'm not doing too well, before I even realise it myself. Which was handy on this holiday as I had a couple of rough patches.
I really hadn't expected to miss Dan so much. We'd planned a busy schedule to keep my nephews occupied and I was very much looking forward to the quality family time. So it was a surprise when the longing crept in. I was again reminded that it's always there, sometimes it pushes to the surface at unexpected times.
Because I was with 'my people', I hadn't expected to experience moments of feeling alone. I had decided to book my own room whereas my sister and her family were staying in their own suite and my parents also had a room to themselves. I'm comfortable in my own company and appreciated having my own space but in those moments where we'd finish up at dinner and call it a night, it felt lonely to say good night and retreat on my own, away from the rest of the group.
I didn't want to sleep on a pull-out sofa in my parents hotel room but I didn't want to be on my own either. I wanted to be there with Dan, as a couple. Or better yet, with Dan and our own children, as a family within the family. But it was just me. Alone, surrounded by my family.
Even on holidays in a tropical paradise my heart can way heavy with the loneliness of missing him.
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