I need to start this with complete honesty. Sharing the details of how and why I’ve been living as a widow for the past three years fills me with overwhelming anxiety. I have no problem recounting everything that’s happened since he passed and the steps I’ve taken afterward—but when it comes to explaining why I’m a widow, my body tenses up, my neck stiffens, and I feel myself retreat.
I don’t have the kind of neat, clear-cut narrative you read in grief books—the ones I eventually hurled across the room in frustration. Those stories sound like: “My husband had cancer and passed away,” or “My wife was killed in a car accident.” That’s not my reality. Shayne didn’t die because of some cruel twist of fate, a random tragedy, or the merciless unpredictability of life. My husband died because of a decision he made. And even now, three years later, whenever someone asks me “how” and “why,” it still feels like a gut-wrenching punch to the stomach.
The truth always gets stuck somewhere between my knotted stomach and my tightening throat. My pulse races, and I have less than a second to decide—“Will I lie to protect him? Or will I swallow the truth whole and speak it out loud?”
In the first weeks and months after Shayne died unexpectedly on April 16, 2016, I often chose to protect him. I would simply say, “He died in his sleep,” keeping the full story locked away. I carried the shame and guilt, letting others speculate. Even my closest friends—the ones in the trenches with me, helping me rebuild—were kept in the dark. I was especially angered by strangers who would message me out of nowhere on social media to ask, “Hi, I know we’ve never met, but how did he die?” It felt like an intrusion. Each time, I’d dissect their motives, as if their need to know would somehow soothe their own fears about life’s fragility. The truth was, the specifics didn’t change anything—he was gone, and the loss was unbearable.
Shayne Stephenson was the most selfless and effortlessly cool person I’ve ever known. We met in 2006 in Nashville when we happened to live in the same apartment complex—he was out walking his dog, and we quickly became inseparable. Our life together wasn’t smooth or conventional, but it was full of adventure and love. He cared for me in ways words can’t capture, and I loved him without limits. Over ten years, we moved 11 times across four states, had two beautiful daughters—Audrey, now 7, and Brooklynn, now 5—and built a life filled with handwritten love notes, cards, and shared memories. He was my best friend, and I never doubted his devotion. When loneliness creeps in, I open the shoeboxes tucked away in my closet, reach for one of his notes, and feel close to him again. Sometimes I think—this was it. This was the greatest love I will ever know.
The circumstances of his death don’t reflect who he was. They don’t erase the life he lived or the love he gave. I always feel the need to make that clear—because one poor choice, even a devastating one, does not define a person.
Still, when the death certificate arrived nearly three months later, it confirmed the fear I’d carried from the moment I got the call: “Accidental death due to the combined effects of alcohol, Xanax, and Oxycodone.” So why am I telling you this? Why not bury it forever? Because no one should feel obligated to carry the weight of another person’s actions, even in death. We don’t own those choices. We can release them. And I’m sharing this because I want people to understand—it only takes one reckless, uncharacteristic decision to destroy everything. One night out, one moment of curiosity, one “innocent” experiment—and life can end.
Someone close to me once asked, gently, “Was this something he did often?” That was the moment I considered never speaking about it again. I didn’t want anyone to think Shayne was an addict, or that he regularly abused alcohol or drugs—because he didn’t. That night, he had been out with my brother, drinking at a restaurant, waiting to pick up a friend from the airport. By the next morning, my life as I knew it was over.
Our lives were already full of moving parts. Audrey had just turned four. Taxes were due that week. We hadn’t told our families yet, but we were planning to move to Florida. The morning he died, I had a cake order to finish for my small home business and had advertised a garage sale. Shayne’s best friend was visiting. Life was chaotic.
Friday night, my brother, Shayne, and I went to Chuy’s for dinner. After eating, I left with the girls because they were getting restless. Shayne buckled them in, kissed them, came around to my side, said something I can’t even remember now, and walked away. I watched him cross the parking lot in my side mirror, not knowing it was the last time I’d ever see him alive.
The next morning, I called his phone repeatedly—frustrated more than worried, because it wasn’t like him to disappear without a word. I postponed the garage sale and kept trying. Then my brother called from my mom’s house and said words I’ll never forget: “Caroline, he’s not breathing.” I thought he was joking or mistaken. I told him to wake Shayne up. Seconds later, my mom called: “Honey, you need to get over here. Shayne isn’t waking up.”
I dressed the girls in a blur and drove over, calling a friend in panic. As I turned onto my mom’s street, I saw the cul-de-sac full of first responders and police cars. My body went cold. I knew.
I parked down the street, put on a movie for the girls, and ran inside. In the kitchen, I saw him lying on the floor as they tried to revive him. My brother grabbed me, and I lashed out, hitting him and demanding to know what happened. A female officer held me down and prayed over me. I could see only Shayne’s legs. And I knew—he was gone. I couldn’t feel him anymore.
A police officer interviewing my brother and Shayne’s friend muttered, “Stupidity is what happened.” His tone, the look in his eyes—it cut me deeply and has stayed with me.
They made me leave because it was now a crime scene. I was in a surreal fog, barely comprehending what anyone said. On the driveway, I collapsed, hitting the concrete with my fists, whispering, “But we were going to move to Florida. He’s mine.”
The days afterward were a haze. The homeowner still demanded we move out by May 1st. At the time, it felt cruel, but in hindsight, it was a blessing in disguise—it forced me to take action. With donations from kind souls and two garage sales, I packed our belongings into storage. I didn’t know the next step, only that I wanted to honor him.
Less than a month later, I loaded the girls and Shayne’s sister into the van and began a journey from Houston to Nashville, visiting the places that mattered most to us. I left pieces of him—ashes—everywhere we went, from the apartment complex where we met, to the Emerald Coast where we married, to Disney World and Clearwater Beach. Like a trail of love, I carried him into our future.
Two months on the road led me to apply for an apartment in the Florida panhandle—the place we had dreamed of living. Nearly three months after his death, we arrived. I knew only one person there, had no job, no school for the girls, no real plan—but I had survived my worst fear. What was left to be afraid of?
It’s been three years now. I’ve learned to be a widow, a single mother, and the architect of our new life. I’ve protected my space, allowing myself to grieve privately, without others’ judgment. I’ve traveled with Shayne, scattering his ashes at places he loved or would have loved—the Grand Canyon, Hoover Dam, Wrigley Field, the place where he proposed. I even took him skydiving for my 30th birthday.
For me, honoring him loudly was essential. Meeting other widows, traveling to comfort them, telling them it’s okay to love someone deeply even after they’re gone—this is how I keep him alive. I will always share who he was: the man I met at 19, married at 22, had children with in my mid-20s, and lost at 29. He was 39. Our time was short, but it was rich with love. And the way he loved me prepared me to keep going. I’ll give that love back to the world, again and again.
Lovin’ life, lovin’ Shayne.