Episode 178: Tending a future you can’t yet see
8/26/26
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You are listening to the Life Reconstructed podcast with me, Teresa Amaral Beshwate, grief
expert, best-selling author and widow. I’m so glad you’re here because in this and every
episode, I shine a light on the widowed way forward.
Hello and welcome to episode 178. In this episode, we’ll talk about what farming taught me about
grief, hope, and why you don’t have to feel hopeful to do something hopeful. Every tiny action
is a vote for the person you’re becoming—and those votes add up.
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Here in California’s Central Valley, we’re in harvest season.
And harvest season always gets me thinking.
When my husband died, I suddenly had a lot of practical problems to solve in addition to the
enormous problem of how to live without him.
One of those practical problems was income.
I needed to create some supplementary income, and I had a piece of property that could be put to
work. Farming is in my blood. I come from a long line of farmers.
But I had never actually farmed.
So I decided to plant an orchard.
There was a very steep learning curve.
And when I think back to the woman who planted those trees, I have so much compassion for her.
Because she planted an orchard when she didn't know if she could live without her husband.
And, frankly, she wasn't even sure she wanted to.
I was investing in a future I wasn't particularly interested in inhabiting.
Planting an orchard is an incredibly future-oriented thing to do.
You don't plant a tree today and harvest a crop next month. You plant something small into the
ground, and then you wait.
You water it.
You fertilize it.
You protect it.
You prune it.
You learn what it needs.
And for a long time, there is no harvest.
You do all that work for something that doesn't exist yet.
Fast-forward to today, and I actually know a few things about farming.
And one of the things I've learned still fascinates me.
Much of what we do to tend the orchard this year isn't really for the benefit of this year's
crop.
It's for next year's crop.
The crop that doesn't even exist yet.
We're already caring for it.
We're making decisions today for fruit we cannot see.
And that reminds me so much of grief.
Because after your person dies, you find yourself living a life you didn't sign up for.
You didn't choose this.
You don't want this.
And especially in the beginning, the idea of some wonderful future version of your life might
feel completely absurd.
You're not thinking about a differently beautiful future.
You're thinking about getting through Wednesday.
You're plodding your way through this surreal existence, putting one foot in front of the other.
Grief is a very messy, gritty, daily experience.
And yet, in the middle of all of it, you keep casting votes for the future.
You may not even realize you're doing it.
Maybe you buy the second home you and your person always dreamed about, even though happiness
feels completely unattainable right now.
That's a vote.
Maybe you go to the farmer's market and buy some vegetables, even though food doesn't taste
particularly good and you don't feel much like eating these days.
That's a vote.
Maybe you put on your shoes and walk around the block when you'd really rather stay on the
couch.
That's a vote.
Maybe you accept an invitation.
You make the doctor's appointment.
You finally deal with that stack of paperwork.
You plant flowers.
You take a class.
You make plans for a trip six months from now.
You go to bed a little earlier because you know your body needs rest.
These things may not feel like hope.
They may just feel like things you did.
But each one casts a vote for a future version of you.
A version of you who is a little stronger.
A little healthier.
A little more confident.
A version of you who knows how to carry grief and love at the same time.
A version of you who can actually feel joy again.
You don't have to be able to imagine her yet.
You don't even have to believe me when I tell you she's possible.
You can tend to her anyway.
Just like I planted trees for a future I wasn't sure I wanted.
And maybe that's what hope actually looks like sometimes.
We tend to think hope should be big.
We think hope should sound like:
"I know everything is going to be okay."
But sometimes hope is much quieter than that.
Your brain says:
It will always hurt like this.
And somewhere underneath that, hope whispers:
There is more.
Your brain says:
I can't imagine ever being happy again.
Hope whispers:
You don't have to imagine it yet.
Your brain says:
I don't know how to do the rest of my life without my person.
And hope says:
You don't have to do the rest of your life today. Just take the next step.
That's all.
The next step.
And then the next one.
I like to imagine that future version of you is already out there.
Not some perfect version of you.
Not someone who has "gotten over" the death of your person.
Not someone who left them behind.
Quite the opposite.
She's someone who has learned how to integrate this enormous love and this enormous loss into
who she is becoming.
She's calm.
She's confident.
She's walked through the darkest darkness and discovered that she can trust herself.
She's kind to the version of you who is struggling today because she remembers exactly how hard
this was.
And she is NOT standing in the future impatiently yelling at you to hurry up.
She's calling you forward.
Gently.
She's saying:
Just come this way.
Take the next step.
And I think if you asked her what you should do today, she probably wouldn't give you some
enormous list.
She'd probably tell you something very simple.
Drink the water.
Eat something nourishing.
Make the phone call.
Go outside.
Rest.
Ask for help.
Say yes.
Say no.
Make the appointment.
Plant the tree.
Whatever your next step is.
And here's the important part:
You don't have to feel hopeful to do something hopeful.
I certainly didn't feel hopeful when I planted an orchard.
I didn't know what my life was going to become.
I couldn't see this version of me.
But I planted anyway.
And all these years later, there are trees where there once was empty ground.
There is a harvest where there once was only possibility.
That's how a life is rebuilt, too.
One tiny decision.
One seemingly insignificant action.
One vote for the future.
Then another.
And another.
Until one day you look around and realize:
You're standing in a life you couldn't have imagined from where you started.
Not the life you originally planned.
Not a replacement for the life you had.
A differently beautiful life.
One that includes your person.
One that has been shaped by your love for them.
And one that you created, little by little, often long before you believed you could.
So if you're in a season right now where you can't see the harvest, that's okay.
You don't need to see it.
You don't even need to know exactly what you're growing.
Just tend what is in front of you.
Take care of today's soil.
Make today's small decision.
Cast today's vote.
And trust that it all adds up.
Because somewhere in the future is a version of you who is deeply grateful that you did.
Keep going.
Love is the way forward.
If this episode was helpful, please share it with a widowed friend. And remember that I believe
in you, and I’m here for you. Take care.
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If you’re listening and thinking, I don’t want to figure it this out alone, I want you to know
that I offer a limited number of private consultations for those who are considering working
with me. We’ll look at where you are, what’s keeping you stuck, and whether my program is the right next step for you. The link to schedule is in the show notes.
