Last week I touched on some of the realities of grief that often fall beyond common knowledge. I think the topic is important to talk about because as a culture, we find grief unanimously uncomfortable. So we avoid its mention.

I used to avoid any discussion about life and loss until it hit me like an uppercut to the jaw, with a pain I couldn’t ignore. Now I talk and share because silence is a lonely place to live. When you are standing in the trenches of a life you didn’t choose, knowing that someone else has felt a similar knock-out punch and the aftermath that ensues makes the journey a little less isolating. Let’s walk together.

The little things hit you at the most unexpected times

Shortly after my husband died, I was at the superstore and nonchalantly walked past the men’s sock and underwear aisle. I suddenly and unexpectedly stopped in my tracks, paralyzed by a panic attack, because it hit me that I wouldn’t have to shop for men’s socks or underwear ever again.

I’ve written about the victory of browning the hamburger without getting teary-eyed. (My husband always browned the burger.)

At first, making half the bed felt like pure agony. The unwrinkled, unslept-on sheets on his side were enough to make me want to crawl back in and curl up in a ball. Changing your emergency contact information at the doctor’s office. Changing the billing name on the electric bill. Taking his name off the car titles. Cancelling his cell phone. Finding his expired driver’s license in a forgotten corner of the kitchen junk drawer. All seemingly “small” tasks that are immeasurably huge in the moment. And they are infinite.

You notice other couples doing things they don’t even realize they are doing: leaning toward one another in a casual photo, an arm draped casually on a partner’s thigh. It’s as if their closeness makes them unaware of where one body ends the other begins. You miss the mundane practice of nonchalantly leaning on a thigh that didn’t belong to you.

Often, it’s the quiet, time-weathered habits that leave the biggest cracks. You don’t realize how much of your life was unconsciously choreographed until your kitchen dance partner is gone. (My husband and I used to dance in the kitchen.) We shared knowing glances from across the room, speaking in our own unspoken language earned after decades of standing together side by side through whatever storm life threw at us.

I miss dancing in the kitchen.

The way you do everything changes.

The way you eat meals (alone). The way you sleep (as alluded to above). The way you brew the morning coffee. The way you watch TV. The way you manage your money. The way you shop.

The way you handle disappointment. The way you plan for the future. The way you value life. The way you celebrate holidays changes. Traditions might fall by the wayside. You might not see the need to celebrate in the old ways, or you may feel a need to create something new and bigger and better. There is no right or wrong; but there almost always is significant change.

Your social life changes (duh). Your spiritual life changes. Your emotional life changes.

Deep, life-changing grief causes you to question everything you thought you knew before you knew the truths laid out before you now.

You might read this and think I’m alluding to negative changes. This is far from the truth. The changes you create in your life are chiefly positive ones. You may find a confidence you never knew existed — before. You might discover a new hobby. You will meet new friends who wouldn’t have been in your circle had you not been a widow(er).

Most of these changes are predicated on necessity. And, while you appreciate what these positive changes bring to your life, you wish you never been put in the position to experience them.

You also realize there is no going back. The only path is forward so that is the direction you pursue. Some days are easier; some less so, but you keep walking — we keep walking — one foot in front of the other. We protect our peace. We celebrate our victories. We keep moving.

Thanks for walking with me.

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