In our My First Year series, five women (and one man) tell their roller-coaster stories after a major life change.

Emily Hash was 28 when her husband, Marine Sergeant Mitchell D. Hash, died by suicide in their Charlottesville, Virginia, home in 2015.

Courtesy of Emily Hash

From the moment I met Mitch, he made me laugh. He was fiercely funny and a little bit odd, brilliant, with such a big heart. We’d been married two years when he died. I had been learning how to be a wife—suddenly I had to learn how to be a widow.

That first night, my parents took me home with them, and I never went back to my house. I stayed there for nine months, and my brother moved in too. Friends from all walks of life showed up soon after with nothing but love to give.

The first week, my mom made sure I did not sleep in my bed alone: She had my girlfriends rotate nights with me and hold me while I cried. I was having a hard time eating, so when my dad found out that I’d drink smoothies, there was one in my hand every day for a month. Simple gestures like that mattered a lot.

One day I picked up from my house a bag of things someone had packed for me. They didn’t notice it had blood spattered on the side. From then on I was terrified of anything that had been in my bedroom.

I was also afraid of life without Mitch.

I witnessed Mitch’s death, so fear came in the form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Everything was a trigger—noises, the dark. I was afraid I would see his ghost when the lights were out. C.S. Lewis said, “No one ever told me grief felt so like fear.”

At times it felt like I’d imagined being married, as if Mitch wasn’t even real.

Many months later a form of anger settled in and hasn’t left. It’s easier to be mad than to let real pain and hurt exist, so it’s become a protective layer. I’ll work it out, but I’m just not there yet.

Grief isn’t predictable, and a loss like this never goes away. You don’t “get over it”; you learn how to manage it in your life. I’m trying not to rush myself. I write a lot—it lets me process things in a way that speaking out loud just can’t.

One of the hardest parts, which I still struggle with, is dealing with people speculating about why this happened. They want a cause (“He was in the military”) or a diagnosis (“She was bipolar”), but suicide is not so easily understood. I think Mitch kept his pain to himself partly because he didn’t want to be a burden.

Since Mitch died, I’ve been humbled by experiencing unconditional love. Mitch’s fellow soldiers were by my side within days; even now their tragedy assistance program for survivors, TAPS, has been an irreplaceable support. I cling to that relentless love of my family and friends. It gives me peace and hope that there is a lot of beautiful love in this world to go around.