One phone call shattered my world. On February 25, 2021, my husband Tim was diagnosed with COVID. Three weeks later, on March 18, he died. In that short time, COVID took a strong, healthy man and ravaged his body. I remember being on the phone with a social worker, planning his move to long-term rehab, when another call came through. It was the doctor. Tim's body had gone into total organ failure, and I needed to come make end-of-life decisions.

Our son was a senior in high school. Our daughter was away at college. The sudden loss ripped us out of our lives and left all three of us numb. That summer, we focused on survival. We ate dinner together, went to movies, and tried to create a sense of normalcy. Nothing felt normal. We moved through life like zombies.

I checked off milestones just to keep going. Easter—check. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day—check. Moved my daughter back to college—check. Dropped my son off for his freshman year—check. Then I came home to an empty house. The distractions were gone, and the grief finally caught me. I had spent months holding it together for my kids while ignoring my own pain. When everything slowed down, it hit me like a freight train.

I stopped functioning. I isolated. I drank to numb the pain, and some nights I drank until I passed out—just to forget the silence, the loss, and the life I never chose.

My husband’s side of the family disappeared from our lives, and the abandonment was shocking. Nine months after Tim’s death—five days before Christmas and what would have been his birthday—they resurfaced, only to unleash cruel and intentionally hurtful words and actions. The betrayal left my children and me stunned. After that encounter, I knew ties had to be permanently severed. They were no longer safe for us. It felt like losing Tim all over again.

I was angry—at COVID, at God, and at life. Angry that my kids no longer had a father. Angry that I had to parent alone. Angry that I was suddenly a 50-year-old widow facing a future I never imagined. Angry that I needed help. Angry that family betrayed us. Angry that God hadn’t answered my desperate prayers. I didn’t want this life. I didn’t choose it. And I didn’t know how to live it.

For several years, I white-knuckled my way through life. What sustained me was my church family, who showed up in countless ways. Looking back, I can see how God sent His people—at exactly the right times—to minister to me, to help me, and to hold me up when I could not stand on my own. Through their love, God confronted me with the truth: I had no control. I was drowning in grief and rage. I had to wrestle with whether I still believed He loved me after all I had lost. I had to surrender the illusion of control and trust Him with a heart that had been shattered.

As I dug deeper, I realized I wasn’t really living. I was a shell of myself. I wasn’t parenting well. I was barely functioning at work. Grief and anger had become my identity—idols I clung to because they felt familiar and safe.

When I began confessing that honestly—to God, to others, and to a small group of women at church—something shifted. Instead of rejection, I found grace. Instead of judgment, I found truth spoken in love. These women became a safe place for honesty and encouragement. They challenged me when I needed it and reminded me that God’s grace still applied to me.

In time, I discovered that grief could coexist with hope. Tim’s death will always be part of my story, but it no longer defines me. God pursued me at my lowest—angry, broken, and questioning His goodness. He did not abandon me. He placed His people in my path to carry me when I could not walk. I began to follow Him again—not because life became easier, but because I could finally see His hand, even in the hardest moments.

One of the most difficult steps in my healing was forgiveness. I believed I would never forgive the family we had to walk away from. But God softened my heart and showed me that forgiveness was not about them—it was about obedience, freedom, and peace. I wrote a letter offering forgiveness. They never responded, and that was never the point. The point was releasing their hold on me. Holding on to anger was not strength; it was bondage. Forgiveness was freedom.

Grief and healing are not linear. Some days I move forward; other days I stumble back. But I no longer live in shame when I struggle. I run to God instead of away from Him. I lean on Him. I cry out to Him. And I choose, daily, to walk in the new life He has given me.

God has sustained me. He has comforted me. He has transformed me. I am not healing because I am strong—I am healing because He is good.

This verse anchors my journey:

“All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us” (2 Corinthians 1:3–4).

Alisa Stevens is a follower of Christ, widow, mother, and wholehearted lover of all things homegrown and handmade. After 27 years of marriage, she began navigating life without her husband, Tim, learning to walk through grief with faith, honesty, and the steady presence of God.

She is the mother of two and a grateful mother-in-law of one, as well as a devoted dog mom. Home is her happy place—whether she’s tending her garden, quilting something cozy, preserving the harvest, or embracing what she lovingly calls her “grandma hobbies.” A passionate homesteader at heart, Alisa finds beauty in simple, faithful living and in creating spaces that feel warm, welcoming, and rooted in purpose.

Church is not just something she attends—it is the heartbeat of her community. The relationships she has built within her church family are essential to her life, sustaining her through loss and shaping her journey forward. In this season, she also lovingly cares for her widowed father, embracing both the weight and the gift of that responsibility.

Through her writing, Alisa shares her story of grief, faith, and resilience, offering encouragement to others learning to trust God in the “after.”