This past week, I had cochlear implant surgery, following a progressive loss of hearing over the last several years in my left ear. And, as so many things in my life do, it got me thinking about different kinds of losses.

I got the surgery with the hope that I’d be able to hear again—not the same way, because the natural way is gone, but in a new way. A way that still feels natural, but is fundamentally different. And that reminded me of something else.

After my first spouse died, I wasn’t sure I’d ever love again. It felt impossible to imagine—because the love we had was singular. It was its own language, its own rhythm. And when it was gone, it wasn’t just the person I lost. It was the way I experienced love with them. That version of love didn’t come back.

But I did find love again. And though it wasn’t the same, it was still real. Still meaningful. Still full of joy and connection. It was a reminder that while we may not get things back the way they once were, we can still find meaning, connection, and joy in the new forms they take.

Loss changes things. And sometimes, the harder part is not just losing something—but learning to receive it in a new form.

Losing my natural hearing was disorienting. It was frustrating. It came with grief—especially because it was so gradual. I kept adapting to a “new normal” every few months, and with each adjustment, I had to grieve what no longer worked, what was no longer possible.

Sometimes, I could hear just fine. Sometimes, I couldn’t hear anything at all on my left side. Sometimes, the imbalance caused headaches, exhaustion, and vertigo. And sometimes, it made social situations incredibly isolating, not being able to understand what others were saying. I looked fine—but I was constantly missing half the conversation.

And that’s the thing about invisible losses—they’re hard to explain, and even harder to validate.

Grief isn’t always about absence; sometimes, it’s about the shape of things changing.

Choosing surgery wasn’t about getting back what I lost—it was about giving myself the chance to engage again. To reconnect with sound, with people, with experiences I didn’t even realize I was slowly withdrawing from. I know I can’t go back, but I can move forward in a new way—with new tools, new understanding, and a new sense of self.

The same is true for emotional healing. We don’t go back to who we were. We don’t get the same love, the same innocence, the same connection. But we can get something new that’s just as valid—sometimes even more layered, more intentional, more aware.

I used to think healing meant returning to a previous version of myself, about having things back the way they were. But I’ve learned that healing is about learning to live fully with the version of me that remains.

It’s okay to miss what was. I miss the clarity of sound. I miss the effortless way I used to follow conversations in a crowded room. And yes, I still miss the love I had with my first spouse. None of that disappears just because something new begins.

But I also know this: making space for something different doesn’t mean we’re erasing what came before. It means we’re adapting. Evolving. Growing.

I’m still healing. The implant hasn’t been activated yet, and there’s still a lot I don’t know about how it will work or what it will sound like. And, yeah… there’s some anxiety—but there’s also hope.

Hope that even if I can’t go back, I can still move forward.

Hope that even if the experience is different, it can still be good.

Hope that even the unfamiliar can become something I learn to trust.

Every day, I hold space for both—the grief of what’s gone and the possibility of what’s ahead. This implant is just one more instance.

Maybe that’s what resilience really is. Not pretending we’re fine, rushing to replace what we’ve lost, or standing resolute despite what life has thrown at us—but learning to make room for joy, even when it looks different than before.

It’s been eleven years since I lost my second spouse. And only recently have I begun to truly believe that I might find love again. I opened to the possibility a few years ago, but I don’t think I really believed it until recently.

If you’ve ever found yourself in a season of rebuilding, of adjusting, of reimagining life after a loss—whether physical, emotional, or relational—know that you’re not alone.

There’s no perfect version of healing. There’s just the courage to keep choosing what’s next, even when it looks nothing like what came before.

Have you ever had to learn to receive something differently after loss? What helped you stay open to the possibility of something new?