I’ve been thinking a lot about Fridays lately; how much I love them. And look forward to them. How they feel like a warm cocoon after a challenging week of work. And how drastically my feelings about them have changed since I wrote The Pinch of Fridays in 2012.

I’ll never forget when Ken was diagnosed with cancer in 2009. For all the reasons. It changed everything. His path—mine. Irrevocably. Mine shifted drastically to that of caregiver where my world revolved (rightfully) around him.

During the last two years of his life, my life existed mostly in and around the confines of our apartment. Ken loved to get out when possible, but many times it just wasn’t an option. Kind, loving friends or co-workers would innocently ask what I was doing for the upcoming weekend. But I had nothing to offer. We stuck close to home. Near comfort. Familiarities. Medications and medical equipment. Or many weekends, Ken’s fraught body was working hard to recover from chemo or radiation treatments, or it was too burdened by cancer to leave him much energy for anything. My weekends weren’t like most people’s. They weren’t like the ones Ken and I had enjoyed for the previous eight years of our relationship.

I think there are things you can mourn that don’t breathe. My weekends stopped being a welcoming comfort as if they turned their backs to me and forgot who I was. Weekends were no longer a safe harbor. I had to re-imagine what they would become, and take comfort in—not days of relaxation–but the tiny moments of love or hope or quiet that I experienced. I mourned the loss of weekends.

A year after he died, I write The Pinch of Fridays, and I well remember all the reasons and all the senses that helped me define what I meant. Though weekends had returned to being what they are for most people—two days off work to do whatever you want—they hadn’t yet returned to me in the form I’d known before cancer killed them. I was somewhere between dreading them and not even noticing them.

While making dinner last night, it occurred to me that I hadn’t felt that pinch in years. And how great that felt. Yet somehow the echo of it remains. But, in the way that it just reminds me how grateful I am to have found my way past it—and back to my weekends, and its gateway, Friday, with only relief from a busy week. No pinch.

My weekends are a mixed bag of downtime, chores and time spent with amazing neighbors or friends. Kallie and I still roam the neighborhood on longer weekend walks when I’m not under any time constraints and we can both take our time. Weekends are full of color again. Of course, they’re not exactly the same as they were before, but how could they be? I’m not exactly the same as I was back then either.

I think back to the fellow who wrote about the pinch with a mixture of pity and pride. He was swimming in such dark water without any idea how much further he’d have to go to find land—anywhere to find his footing. And he shared all of his feelings—everything—his sadness and bitterness, as well as his realizations and victories.

I wouldn’t be where I am without that guy. I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the joy in my life—personally and professionally—without the benchmark of seeing how far I’ve come. I’m a creature of contrast in that I enjoy noticing how things have changed–for the better in this case. I honor the experiences that led me to where I now stand. They have prepared me for the best and worst life has to offer.