Enduring the simultaneous loss of your wife to cancer and the collapse of a startup you've invested nearly a decade of your life into is a level of pain and hardship few can truly understand. Both experiences—personal and professional—strip life down to its rawest, most overwhelming truths. Together, they force you to confront not just loss, but also a deep sense of helplessness and solitude. The journey through these dual tragedies isn’t about finding quick lessons or silver linings, but rather about learning to survive through the sheer weight of grief, exhaustion, and heartache.

Watching your wife slowly succumb to cancer is an indescribable agony. You bear witness to the erosion of someone you love, seeing her strength and vitality fade. Each day becomes a struggle between wanting to hold on to every moment and mourning the future you had once imagined together. You do everything you can—offering care, comfort, and love—but ultimately, you face the harsh reality that no matter how much you fight, you can’t change what’s happening. The helplessness is unbearable, knowing that your love and efforts can’t stop the inevitable.

At the same time, the failure of the startup you helped build over nine years is its own unique devastation. Your startup is not just a job or a business—it’s an extension of yourself, your passion, and your dreams. You’ve poured your time, energy, and heart into it, sacrificing along the way, only to see it slowly unravel. The failure feels personal, a reflection of the countless hours and sacrifices that are now slipping away. It’s as if a part of your identity is crumbling alongside the company. And just like with your wife, no matter how hard you fight to save it, some forces are simply beyond your control.

Both of these experiences share a profound sense of powerlessness. Whether it's watching a loved one decline or seeing your business falter, you come face-to-face with the limits of your control. It’s a harsh reality, one that forces you to accept that sometimes, despite your best efforts, you can’t change the outcome. This realization doesn’t come with immediate peace or acceptance—it’s often accompanied by a deep frustration and sadness. But over time, it may instill a quiet kind of resilience: not the resilience of pushing through, but of learning to live with the weight of what you can’t change.

In this process, the way you view time changes drastically. With your wife, every moment feels precious, and yet every passing day brings you closer to losing her. It’s a cruel paradox—cherishing the present while fearing the future. With your startup, time feels equally pressing. You’re constantly trying to salvage something from the wreckage, trying to hold onto the years of work that are slipping through your fingers. Both situations make you realize how fleeting time is, how quickly everything can change, and how little control we truly have over it.

Grief in these circumstances is multifaceted. Losing your wife brings a kind of pain that’s deeply emotional, a heartache that touches every part of your life. It’s not just losing her presence but losing the future you imagined together, the shared moments, and the everyday companionship. On the other hand, the failure of your startup brings a different kind of grief. It’s tied to your sense of self, to your identity as a creator, a builder. The disappointment is layered with frustration and regret, a mourning of the vision you once had. Navigating both forms of grief at the same time creates an emotional complexity that few can relate to—it’s an ongoing battle with yourself as you try to make sense of the loss on both fronts.

One of the most painful aspects of this process is the profound solitude that comes with it. The isolation is not just physical; it’s emotional, mental, and existential. Watching your wife’s decline is an experience that feels impossible to fully share with others. No matter how supportive people are, they aren’t in the room with you as you witness her suffering. The same is true for your startup’s failure. The countless hours, the sacrifices, the energy you invested are yours alone to carry, and as it unravels, it can feel like no one else fully understands the weight of what you’re losing.

There’s a specific kind of solitude that comes from having to be the strong one in both situations. With your wife, you’re likely the caretaker, the person holding everything together. You may feel the need to stay composed for her, offering strength even as your heart breaks. With your startup, you’re also likely in a position of leadership, trying to project calm and control while inside, you're wrestling with defeat. In both cases, it can feel like you’re carrying the burden alone, expected to be strong for everyone else while having nowhere to turn for your own release.

This solitude is compounded by the disconnection from everyday life. While the world continues to move forward, you’re stuck in a different reality, where everything is defined by loss. People around you may be planning their futures, but your future feels uncertain, clouded by the grief of both losing someone you love and losing something you’ve built. It’s a loneliness that makes you feel disconnected from the very world you once moved so easily within.

There’s also an isolating uncertainty in both situations. You don’t know exactly when your wife will pass, just as you may not know when the final chapter of your startup will close. The lack of clarity about what comes next—whether in your personal life or professional life—can make the solitude feel even heavier. It’s as if you’re navigating a fog, with no clear sense of direction, and no one else can truly guide you.

Yet, in this solitude, there’s also space for deep introspection. The intensity of both losses forces you to confront questions of meaning, purpose, and identity. What does it mean to lose someone who was such a central part of your life? What does it mean to have a dream fall apart after years of effort? These are questions you must answer for yourself, in your own time. The answers won’t come easily, but through the pain and reflection, you may begin to find glimpses of meaning in both the love you’ve given and the work you’ve done.

Right now, the focus isn’t on finding those answers—it’s on surviving. Surviving the overwhelming weight of grief and loss, taking each day as it comes, and knowing that it’s okay to not have everything figured out. The lessons, the meaning, the clarity—they may come later, when the immediate pain has softened. For now, it’s about enduring, as best as you can, through the darkness. It’s about recognizing that the love you shared and the work you did both mattered deeply, even as you face their absence.

The solitude may feel unbearable at times, but you don’t have to carry it all alone. Even in moments where words feel inadequate and support seems distant, there are still people who care, who can offer presence, even if they can’t fully understand. And eventually, though it may not feel like it now, the heavy weight of this isolation may lift, leaving behind something quieter, a space where both grief and resilience can coexist.

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Reflection upon myself:

Feelings do not justify reality. As many loved ones had passed away from this world in my lifetime. Reality stays the same. Don't let feeilings define the reality of this world. Quoting my grand mother: "The living needs to keep living."