As the days rolled into weeks, and then became months, strong continued to mean different things. Things that I never previously associated with being strong.
I learned that strong means laying on the cold, hard kitchen floor crying for three months straight.
I discovered that strong means sobbing silently while I cook my sons dinner every night for a year.
Strong is a lot of things.
Strong is learning to hide my tears behind sunglasses at the grocery store.
Strong is getting up everyday to repeat a life that is nothing like the one I imagined.
Strong is making homespun, amateur attempts at creating a new life, when all I want is my old life back.