You’ve got this!
When my husband died, I was overwhelmed—as any widowed spouse would be. Lost in a fog, I couldn’t fully comprehend what was happening. Couldn’t sort out what needed to be done—funeral home, death certificates, ambulance bills, joint accounts, how to pump gas. Yes, even pumping gas was beyond me in my grief.
But I bumped through it, because instinct pushed me to persevere.
Four years later, I found myself selling one property and buying another 750 miles away. I almost bought the wrong house—because it was clean and needed little or no repair—but after submitting the bid, I recognized the house did not meet my minimum requirements: It lacked a back door into the fenced yard for my dog and had no basement for storage and storms. I spent one night in a state of panic but managed to extract myself from the deal the next day.
Instead, I bought a house that looked lovely in the listing, but whose innards were, in some ways, ghastly. Disgustingly dirty. And in need of more repair than I was led to believe. But it met my basic requirements. And had a small second story, to boot—with abundant storage space.
When I moved in, I’d no idea how to begin. And couldn’t find help. Something akin to that fog I’d felt as a new widow threatened to keep me from taking action. I was afraid I’d bitten off more than I could chew. But then I began—pulling up carpet, plastering holes, painting. And finally finding a contractor who actually shows up. In fact, he lets me watch over his shoulder and pepper him with questions. I’m learning a lot, and the house has ceased to be a threat to my mental health.
Now I’m overwhelmed by how to handle the winter weather. I’ve moved to a land famous for abundant snowfall and discovered I cannot shovel snow. My arthritic spine won’t allow it—at least not long enough to clear the driveway and the sidewalk before it snows again.
My instinct is to panic. But I’m learning to trust that I’ll find a way. I love the snow, even when it’s up to my knees. I take walks in my extra-warm, waterproof, cleated boots and revel in this white wonderland encouraging myself to believe there’s a way to tame the wild beast where absolutely necessary. There are snow-blowing devices and professional snow plowers. I’ll manage.
This morning, I read an article in the Washington Post about a man named Karl Bushby, who has been walking home for 27 years. He started at the southern tip of South America, headed to his home in England. He expects to arrive in September 2026.
Apparently Bushby made two rules for himself when he started the trek: “I can’t use transport to advance, and I can’t go home until I arrive on foot. If I get stuck somewhere, I have to figure it out.”
I don’t plan on walking around the world. And I don’t have such harsh limitations on incorporating solutions when I’m stuck. But the notion is the same: I have to figure it out. I’m sorry it took me 71 years to get to this point, but I’m glad that when confronted with a major obstacle—or merely a moment’s panic—I can finally say to myself, in all sincerity, “You’ve got this!”
I thank the widows and widowers group that meets at the Eureka Springs Methodist Church. Without you, I might still be stuck in the fog.
And I encourage everyone to look up Karl Bushby. Quite a story.