Proof of Life

A few years after Brad died, I found myself standing on the edge of a waterfall in Costa Rica, heart hammering, trying to convince my feet to move.

Below me, the water was dark and menacing. Around me, a group of women — all widows — were cheering like they'd known me for years.

I jumped.

And somewhere on the way down, I thought: I shouldn't be here.

Not because I didn't deserve to be there. Because I genuinely couldn't imagine this version of my life when Brad died.

In those early days of grief, my world became very small. I wasn't thinking about waterfalls or future relationships or what my life might look like in five years. I was thinking about how to survive until bedtime.

Sometimes grief shrinks your timeline to the next hour. The next breath.

The future disappears.

I think a lot about the phrase "proof of life."

Officially, it's a document or signal used to confirm that someone is still alive. But over the years, I've started collecting a different kind.

A boarding pass. A concert ticket. A photo with friends. A sunburn. A passport stamp. A terrible first date. A laugh that caught me off guard.

Evidence that I was still here. Evidence that life was still happening — not despite grief, but alongside it.

One of the greatest misconceptions about grief is that healing looks like feeling better. That one day the sadness will be gone, and you'll arrive somewhere that makes sense again.

That wasn't my experience.

The grief never disappeared. It simply stopped being the only thing in the room.

Joy showed up. Curiosity, friendship, adventure, love. And somehow they all learned to coexist with the thing that never left.

These days, I don't measure my healing by how little grief I feel. I measure it by the proof.

The hikes. The places. The risks. The stories. The moments that made me laugh so hard I forgot to be sad. The moments that made me cry because I remembered. The moments that made me cry because I was grateful.

All of it counts. Especially the ordinary things.

The morning walks. The flowers blooming in the yard. The dinner with friends. The dog hair on your clothes. The trip you finally booked. The fact that you got out of bed today.

Proof of life doesn't have to be some grand adventure. Sometimes it's just participating in your own existence — showing up, paying attention, allowing yourself to be here.

Grief taught me that life is not a problem to solve. It's an experience to witness.

So look around. Notice what made you smile, what surprised you, what felt hard, what happened. Because one day you'll realize those small moments weren't small at all.

They were proof that your heart kept beating. That the world kept turning. That you did too.

And sometimes, proof of life looks like standing at the edge of something terrifying — and jumping anyway.

Want to explore the idea of Proof of Life?

This summer inside Joy Scout Club, we're exploring Proof of Life together — not by chasing happiness or forcing ourselves to move on, but by paying attention. Collecting evidence of what's still here. Noticing the small acts of courage that remind us we're still participating in our lives.

Members will receive field assignments, resources, and space to share what they're finding along the way.

If you've been looking for a community of widows that understands the complicated coexistence of grief and joy, come join us.

Come collect some proof of life.

Want to see everything we have going on this month? Check out the full schedule HERE.