Each of us will experience deep grief at one time or another. No one wants it, but we also don’t want the alternative — for those we love to grieve after us.

Talk about a conundrum.

I know this isn’t a pleasant subject. But it is a real one, and one that none of us can avoid. At least not forever.

I got to the front of the queue in 2020 — November to be exact — and have learned a few things since then about deep grief.

When most of us think about a queue we associate the thought with long lines and roller coasters.

Grief is most certainly a roller coaster. The most terrifying of them. The roughest ride in the park, I’ll attest to that.

Here I am, more than 2.5 years out and it is still terrifying, but maybe not as much. The ride has become a bit smoother, a bit more habitable. The sudden, gravity-defying descents aren’t quite as deep anymore. Grief isn’t what it used to be.

I guess that’s a win. Thank goodness.

It used to be so intensely raw. Like walking barefoot on broken glass raw. Like swallowing acid raw. Like being bit by a thousand fire ants raw. Like staring at the sun and burning your eyes raw.

Grief doesn’t end. I don’t think it does. But it changes. It becomes less raw. Less minute by minute and more hour by hour. Maybe even day by day, but I haven’t gotten there quite yet.

When my husband first left this world, I felt the pain in every action, every breath, every minute, every day. That has changed. 

I no longer have a panic attack when seeing the men’s sock aisle at the local superstore. I remember pulling my cart into an obscure space and trying to catch my breath and avoid a panic attack — because I couldn’t breathe at the thought of never having to shop in the men’s sock aisle ever again. 

Now I can walk through the men’s clothing section — socks, underwear, T-shirts, the whole lot — while continuing to breathe normally. 

I guess that’s a win.

I no longer die inside when I brown the hamburger. My husband always browned the hamburger. He was much better at it that I. In those first days of grief, browning the hamburger was painful. It burned deeper than I ever could have imagined. 

Now I brown the hamburger and make the coffee (another of his responsibilities) without tears or turmoil.

I guess that’s a win.

I took my family on vacation — to Mickey’s favorite place. It was also my husband’s favorite place. He was literally like a kid at a candy store, except his candy store was amusement parks. We’d have to get up too early to get to the entrance before the park opened so we could run to the best ride and get on first without much of a wait.

I couldn’t imagine the place without him. But I did it. I took the kids and we ran to the best rides and posed in front of the castle, just like he would have wanted us to do.

I guess that’s a win.

I sold a house. I bought a house. I sold a car. I bought a car. I learned to install flooring and paint cabinets and do a backsplash in the kitchen. All wins.

Today’s win involves removing and replacing a toilet. I’m learning and stretching and doing new things. I’m not afraid of them anymore.

And I know fully and absolutely he is proud.

I guess that’s a win.

No, I know it is.

— Jill Pertler’s column Slices of Life appears regularly in the Times. She can be reached at slicescolumn@gmail.com.