By Alison
“Sometimes feeling safe doesn’t mean staying inside your bubble — it means daring to open the door again and realizing that even in pain, love still lingers.”
— Alison Covington
The Places That Hold Our Pain
Sometimes, grief doesn’t just live inside of us — it lives in the places where our hearts broke. It lingers in rooms, in objects, and in the memories that once brought joy. Healing after loss isn’t always about moving on; sometimes it’s about learning to coexist with those places that hold our pain, piece by piece, until we can breathe again. For me, that place was a shed.
The Dream Before the Darkness
Just like in any nightmare, there’s always that one thing you fear — an object, a place, a person, or even a thought. Fear often comes from within, shaped by what we’ve seen, experienced, or imagined. Never in my life did I think a shed would become that thing — the source of my nightmares, the place I’d never want to walk into again.
During the time of my husband’s passing, David and I were in a season of transition — a good one. He loved Dave Ramsey and was always careful with our finances. We had just sold our beautiful Parade of Homes house for more than we ever expected. The plan was simple: downsize the house, the mortgage, and our lifestyle so one of us could stay home with the kids, so we can enjoy being with them while they were young. Plus, childcare had been draining my entire salary, so we decided it was time to live differently — to live more intentionally.
We found a charming southern-style home — the kind with a wraparound porch, cozy rooms, and outdated wallpaper that had potential. We started renovating the kitchen, dreaming of what it could become. I remember David asking me, “Are you sure this is the home you want to stay in all day?” I smiled and said, “Absolutely. It’s my dream home.”
I pictured our children running through the yard, learning together at home on the massive porch, and all of us sharing slow, simple days filled with laughter. It was the vision of a beautiful new beginning.
The Workshop of Dreams
Out back, David created his perfect space — the shed. It was his sanctuary. Every tool had its place, neatly labeled with his trusty label maker. It was organized, peaceful, and full of potential. He was beginning to see the same dream I had — a happy life away from the city, grounded in family and simplicity.
Our home was starting to feel like home — our new chapter unfolding with promise. But six months later, that feeling vanished. That little house that once held so much love became a place of unbearable pain.
The Morning Everything Changed
At the time, I didn’t know I was an empath — someone deeply attuned to the emotions of others. A psychiatrist once called me “highly sensitive,” but it wasn’t until I sat with a medium on the first anniversary of David’s death that I heard the word empath. In that moment, so many things about my life — and that day — finally made sense.
Looking back, I now see the signs. David wasn’t sleeping, eating, or focusing much. I encouraged him to see a doctor and therapist, which he finally did — the day before he passed. I didn’t realize that what I thought was my stress was really his. I had unknowingly absorbed his emotional pain.
The morning he died, I woke up feeling strangely light — as if a tremendous weight had been lifted. I actually thought, “Brighter days are ahead, everything will get better for us now.” I wanted to plan a family outing that day to remind him of the beauty still around us.
Around 8 a.m., I started looking for him because the internet company was coming. He wasn’t in the house, not in the car, not under the porch working on new internet lines. Then I noticed our huskies outside near the shed, refusing to move. My heart began to race.
As I walked toward the shed, thoughts flooded my head — words that weren’t mine:
“I’m so sorry for what I’ve done.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t go over there.”
“Now she can date whoever she wants.”
It was chaos inside my mind, but I knew I was hearing him. His thoughts. His words.
When I reached for the door, flashes of his life rushed through me — our wedding, our children’s births, our happiest moments. I opened the door for only a second. Long enough to see the gun and know my entire world had shattered. In that moment, our dreams, our plans, our new beginning — everything — was gone.
A House That Was No Longer Home
For the next five weeks, that shed haunted me. If the kids played outside, I’d stand twenty feet away, frozen. That shed — once filled with his joy — became a tomb of memories. It was the place that stole my peace.
I knew I couldn’t stay there. I needed a new start — another new beginning, this time just for me and the kids. When I began searching for a new home in Ohio, my first question about every property was: What does the shed look like? If it even slightly resembled the old one by color or structure, the house was immediately crossed off the list.
Eventually, I found a home where the shed looked completely different. But even now, I rarely go inside. I can’t bring myself to organize it or touch David’s tools. Partly because I know I’d cry, and partly because I’m afraid of the emotions those objects still hold. To this day, I step into my shed fewer than ten times a year.
Learning to Step Inside Again
That shed still holds space — in my yard, and in my mind. A constant reminder of both love and loss. Over time, I’ve made small attempts to face it — stepping inside, letting the tears flow, and allowing myself to feel the energy of the space.
Healing, I’ve learned, doesn’t come from shutting out the pain. It comes from walking through it — from standing in the places that once broke you and allowing your walls to come down, one piece at a time.
Sometimes, feeling safe doesn’t mean staying in the bubble you built to survive. Sometimes, feeling safe means daring to open the door again — and realizing that even in the most painful places, love still lingers.
The Courage to Face the Shadows
Every one of us has a “shed” — a place, memory, or moment we’re afraid to revisit. But healing isn’t about forgetting; it’s about having the courage to return to those places with a new heart. It’s about transforming pain into purpose and allowing love to light the way through the darkness.
I may never see that shed the same way again, but I no longer see it only as a place of loss. I see it as a reminder of survival, of love that still whispers through grief, and of the strength it takes to open the door again — even when it terrifies you.
After losing my husband to suicide, the shed in our backyard became my greatest fear — and my path to healing. This is a story of grief, love, and the courage to face the places that hold our pain. Healing begins when we open the door to what once broke us, and let the tears and memories flow freely.
Channeled message from Loved Ones and Spirit:
You must move forward in your life and face your fear. By not facing your fear you hold on to the energy that is stuck in time. Pain is meant to be felt just as much as love. When the pain releases you will fill the open space with love and gratitude for the imprint they made in your life. Be kind to yourself, as you take the first step toward a 'new beginning.'
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