Grace for the Detour

I’ve gone back and forth about whether to share this part of my life. It’s not flattering, and it’s not tidy. It’s the chapter that still makes me cringe when I think about it, mostly because it sounds like the setup to one of those, “Wait… you did what?” moments. And yes, I did.

It’s not exactly a highlight reel story – I’ve touched on it in some of my posts, but not the full story. It’s the season where I thought I was rebuilding and accidentally built a house on quicksand. Not my proudest era. But my goal has always been to show what grief actually looks like, not just the quiet tears and the “finding strength” parts, but the messy, impulsive, sometimes wildly wrong turns too. My life has been a bit of a masterclass in what not to do, and this chapter might be the valedictorian of that category.

I hesitated to tell it, mostly because it invites shock and disapproval from people who’ve never been that far down in the dark. But I think it’s important. Grief isn’t all solemn reflection and soft lighting. Sometimes it’s a series of panicked decisions that make sense only when you realize how desperate you were to feel normal again.

After Robert died, I did what I thought a responsible adult was supposed to do: I tried to rebuild. I bought a house near my parents, kept the girls busy, and told myself I was “moving forward.” That’s what people say you’re supposed to do, right? Keep going. Stay strong. Keep it together.

What I didn’t know then was that “moving forward” can look a lot like running in circles.

Three months after the accident, I came home to a voicemail from a childhood sweetheart, Joe. We hadn’t spoken in fifteen, maybe sixteen years, but his voice hit me like sunlight in a closed room. Our families had been close when we were kids. It felt familiar. Safe. I didn’t realize that when you’re drowning in grief, familiar feels a lot like rescue.

My sister and I decided to take a little road trip to see Joe and his family. Old feelings came flooding back, uninvited but convincing. It was spring, and everything outside was waking up again. I mistook that newness for healing; I thought the weather was some divine hint that it was my turn to come back to life.

Very quickly, we were spending weekends together, talking for hours every day in between, and by late-summer, we were married. On paper, that sounds like madness. In real life, it felt like momentum. I told myself, “God must have brought him back into my life for a reason.” That was my favorite half-truth. Of course, sometimes God really does send help; other times, we grab the nearest float and call it a lifeboat.

It didn’t take long for things to crumble. Joe had two kids, I had two kids, and suddenly we were six broken people trying to pretend we were one big happy family. His children didn’t know how to handle my grieving daughters, and my daughters didn’t know how to handle another father figure showing up in their lives.

By the time the first anniversary of Robert’s death came around, I was crying constantly and didn’t know why I couldn’t stop. Joe didn’t know how to help, and I didn’t know how to explain grief that had gone dormant and then burst open again like a wound you thought had healed. I had also moved away from my family, back to my hometown to be with him, too far from the comfort of the people who had held me up.

Eventually, I realized what I’d done. I hadn’t “moved on.” I’d built a new life on top of an old ache, and the foundation couldn’t hold. Leaving felt impossible, but staying was worse. I remember the day I packed up. It was a week before Christmas - the second anniversary of Robert’s death. I didn’t plan it that way, but as I crossed the bridge out of town, I realized I was leaving one version of my life behind on the same date that had taken the first one. It felt strangely symmetrical. Painful, but honest.

For years, I carried shame for that detour. It wasn’t easy to explain to anyone, so I didn’t. People assumed I “moved on too fast,” and they were right, but that wasn’t the whole story. What I did wasn’t about romance or recklessness, it was about exhaustion. When your world has burned to the ground, you’ll take warmth anywhere you find it, even if it’s only smoke. I can’t fault myself for wanting peace. After months of chaos, normal felt like a miracle. What I didn’t understand yet was that “familiar” doesn’t mean “healed.”

I often wished I could start over - but if I could go back, I wouldn’t go to the night of the accident. I’d go to the months after it - the part where I still had choices. The accident wasn’t mine to undo. What came next was.

That realization stings, but is also freeing.

Even that regret has softened with time. Time has a way of translating mistakes into lessons, and this one taught me plenty. It’s taken years to understand why I did what I did. When your heart has been shattered, your brain scrambles to create a new normal. You crave safety, even if it’s false. You chase light, even if it’s a mirage. And when someone kind reaches out, it’s easy to mistake comfort for capacity. I wasn’t trying to “move on.” I was just trying to stop drowning.

That’s a lesser-known aspect of grief: it isn’t just sadness. It’s panic. It’s an ache for something, anything, that feels solid. And sometimes, that ache drives us straight into the arms of something we’re not ready for.

I’ve heard the whispers: “I can’t believe she did that.” Me either. But logic doesn’t stand a chance against trauma. My brain wasn’t planning a future, it was just trying to survive a Tuesday.

Others said, “But a vow is a vow.” They weren’t wrong. But staying in something you entered from brokenness doesn’t make you faithful. It makes you stuck.

And yes, I was running from pain. I admit it freely. But I was also reaching for life. Those two things aren’t opposites, they’re twins.

When I felt the need to reach out via writing to those who are grieving, I promised myself that if I ever told this story, I’d tell it without the shame. The truth is, I didn’t fail because I remarried too soon, I failed because I mistook survival for healing. That’s what grief does - it tricks you into believing that the first thing that feels good must also be right.

Here’s what I’ve learned, slowly and sometimes the hard way: Familiar things can feel safe, but that doesn’t mean they are. And comfort, as nice as it feels, isn’t the same thing as being ready. Grief will make you reach for anything that feels steady, but sometimes what you grab isn’t meant to hold you forever.

Regret doesn’t really go away, but it does quiet down. The guilt still tries to get a word in now and then, but grace always speaks louder. I wasn’t wrong for wanting relief. I just wasn’t ready to build anything solid on it yet.

If you’re in that place now, wanting to change everything just to feel something different, please hear me: that’s not a green light. That’s a smoke alarm. Wait. Breathe. Let people help you slow down. Grief is not a race. It’s a process.

And if you’ve already made the leap and realized it was wrong, it’s not too late to turn around. There’s no prize for suffering longer than you have to. You can stop. You can turn around. You can begin again.

I’ve learned that regret doesn’t really disappear, but it doesn’t have to run the show anymore. It still pops up now and then, usually when I least expect it, but it doesn’t get the microphone like it used to. I can look back now and still love the people who were part of those detours while admitting, “That wasn’t right."

Over time, I’ve learned to forgive myself for what I didn’t know back then. There’s a kind of mercy that comes with age and hindsight; it lets you hold the guilt loosely enough that the lesson can finally breathe.

And when the dates roll around, or the memories sneak back in like they always do, I remind myself of this: I did turn around. I did start over. Maybe not as soon as I wish I had, but I did.

With grace for the mess,

~Stefani