The Widowhood Chapter Never Truly Ends
And yet, it can bring unexpected new beginnings
This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
I’d heard the ancient Yiddish proverb, “We plan, God laughs,” but I’d never fully understood the depth of its meaning until the summer of 2023.
Until then, my life had unfolded almost exactly according to plan. I had an amazing husband, two children, a dog, a house in the suburbs, and a fulfilling career in health care. I was Type A, organized, routinized, and always in control, functioning mostly on autopilot.
On June 11, 2023, Eric, my husband of thirty years, died from a brain tumor. In an instant, every plan came to a halt. I was thrust into a chapter of life I never imagined and certainly never wanted: widowhood.
The thing about widowhood is that there is no routine, no rulebook and no sense of control. I felt completely untethered and desperately searched for a way to make it through. Grief was unpredictable, refusing to follow a schedule. True to my nature, I approached grief like a college course I was determined to ace. I went to therapy, attended multiple support groups, read countless books, and listened to podcasts. It was my therapist who gently reminded me of a truth I desperately needed to hear: you can’t earn an A in grief.
Instead, this chapter became one of deep introspection. I learned that healing wasn’t about mastering grief or finding a shortcut through it. It was about allowing myself to feel every emotion, surrendering the need to control the process, and, as uncomfortable as it was, embracing the suck.
I had always believed strength meant independence and perseverance. Widowhood taught me that strength sometimes looks like accepting help, saying I’m not okay, and allowing people to sit beside you instead of trying to fix you. I recognized that, for perhaps the first time in my life, I would have to allow myself to be vulnerable and accept that I couldn’t navigate this journey alone.
Although at times the pain seemed unbearable, I decided I needed to turn my pain into purpose. My sons and I became actively involved in raising awareness and funds for brain tumor research, honoring Eric’s memory while helping other families facing the same devastating diagnosis.
I also made intentional changes to help move forward. I sold my house and moved into an apartment. I went zip-lining. Eventually, I also started dating. Each of these choices was a meaningful step toward rebuilding a life I never expected to have to create. None of these decisions erased my grief. They weren’t attempts to replace the life I had lost. They were quiet declarations that I was still alive, still capable of curiosity, courage, and joy. Each new experience reminded me that moving forward did not mean leaving Eric behind.
I no longer plan as much as I once did. Instead, I try to live more fully in the present. I stop and smell the flowers. I practice gratitude for what I had, for what I have, and for the life I continue to build.
The widowhood “chapter” never truly ends because love and grief are forever intertwined. But it is not the final chapter in my story.
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