It was three months ago that I blogged about Getting to the Joy: A Widowed Journey.

It had taken nearly five years for me to accept the fact that despite my husband’s loss, it is okay for me to have joy in my life again. I wasn’t obligated to live a life of depression and solitude simply because my happily ever after came to an abrupt end.

But in getting to this place of joy, I have to honest. Grief isn’t something that goes away once you hit a certain amount of “good” days. No, it continues to lurk in the background, waiting for an opportunity to remind you of what was, what could have been, what will never be.

I’ve often heard that happiness is a choice. While part of me understood that concept, I was also a tad dismissive. How can someone who just received a devastating diagnosis choose happiness? Why would a husband whose wife just succumbed to melanoma choose to be happy? It just didn’t make any sense. They were dealt a horrible hand and life – not them – determined their happiness.

This weekend however, as I reflected on the month of March and all the memories tied to my husband – our wedding anniversary, the last conversation we had, his death, his funeral – I began to question my joy. Did my contentment mean that he was forgotten? Was the light from my new found joy causing my love for him to fade?

I was reminded of that quote again: Happiness is a choice.

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Writing & Widowing: Journaling the Journey
(A series of 60 journal prompts designed for widowed community)

Yes, I could have spent his death anniversary drowning out my sorrows with a bottle of alcohol, curled up in my bed with the blinds drawn (and if that’s how you’ve chosen to grieve your spouse’s death then that’s okay). For me, I didn’t want to pay tribute to his life in this way but I felt like I was obligated to be down in the dumps. Isn’t that what widows are supposed to do? Mope around, be sad, cry? I felt like a “widow failure” because I wanted to do none of these things. I actually felt guilty for still having my joy.

Don’t get me wrong. My joy still comes with tears. I continue to deeply mourn my husband, not simply as my spouse but as my confidant, my adviser and the person who calmed me from my very core when everything seemed wrong with the world.
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Loving someone so passionately and then losing them shouldn’t mean that I lose my own passion for life though. I keep reminding myself of this. Moving forward – in spite of, despite of – doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten about our love affair.

But this weekend, I told myself that I shouldn’t get to be happy. These new memories I’m creating – without him – shouldn’t be filled with so much laughter and peace.  I don’t deserve this joy when he’s six feet under.

I fought through these feelings, reminding myself that even at my spouse’s most selfish moments, he would never want me to be unhappy. He was a realist, believing that what’s done is done. One of us isn’t here to enjoy all the things that make life worth truly living so why should the other allow death to win too?

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So to the questions in my head that threaten to rain on my parade each and every time my heart is filled with immense joy, I will repeat these four words: Happiness is a choice.

I will continue to choose happiness. On the days I ask myself who am I to dare be happy when I’ve buried my spouse at 32, I will choose happiness. When I wonder why I have not been completely broken after the gut-punch life gave me, I will choose happiness. When I question my love for my spouse because I’ve met someone new, I will choose happiness. When I feel like my cup runeth over and I’m not deserving of all the goodness and mercy in my life, I will choose happiness. When the tears roll down my face and my soul is overwhelmed by sadness, I will allow myself to soak in those grief waves but I will still choose happiness.

Mom to a feisty preschooler, Kerry Phillips became widowed at age 32. She runs an online support group for young widows and widowers venturing back into the world of dating and is a blogger for The Huffington Post.