Navigating widowhood has been an absolute dichotomy of emotions. The loneliness that is always present, even when I seem to genuinely smile or am surrounded by friends. The sadness that doesn’t ever leave me, even during the times I also feel joy (such a strange combination). The indescribable ache that is with me constantly, even amidst the feelings of gratitude and hope that also permeate my days.
I came across this passage written by Selina Robins that seemed to perfectly articulate what the experience of losing my spouse has felt like. She accurately described the feelings associated with needing to redefine yourself, of being uncertain how you now fit in the world, of actually becoming a new person.
Widowhood is More Than …
By Selina Robins
“Widowhood is more than missing your spouse’s presence. It is adjusting to an alternate life. It is growing around a permanent amputation.
Widowhood is going to bed for the three hundred and sixty fifth time, and still, the loneliness doesn’t feel normal. The empty bed a constant reminder. The night no longer brings intimacy and comfort, but the loudness of silence and the void of connection.
Widowhood is walking around the same house you have lived in for years and it no longer feeling like home. Because “home” incorporated a person. And they’re not there. Homesickness fills your heart and the knowledge that home will never return haunts you.
Widowhood is seeing all your dreams and plans you shared as a couple crumble around you. The painful process of searching for new dreams that include only you amount to climbing Mount Everest. And every small victory of creating new dreams for yourself includes a new shade of grief that their death propelled you to walk this path.
Widowhood is second guessing everything you thought you knew about yourself. Your life had molded together with another’s and without them you have to relearn all your likes, hobbies, fears, goals. The renaissance of a new person makes you proud and heartbroken simultaneously.
Widowhood is being a stranger in your own life. The unnerving feeling of watching yourself from outside your body, going through the motions of what was your life, but being detached from all of it. You don’t recognize yourself. Your previous life feels but a vapor long gone, like a mist of a dream you begin to wonder if it happened at all.
Widowhood is the irony of knowing if that one person was here to be your support, you would have the strength to grieve that very person. The thought twists and confuses you. If only they were here to hold you and talk to you, you’d have the tenacity to tackle this unwanted life. To tackle the arduous task of moving on without them.
Widowhood is missing the one person who could truly understand what is in your heart to share. The funny joke, the embarrassing incident, the fear compelling you or the frustration tempting you. To anyone else, you would have to explain, and that is too much effort, so you keep it to yourself. And the loneliness grows inside you.
Widowhood is struggling with identity. Who are you if not their spouse? What do you want to do if not the things you planned together? What brand do you want to buy if not the one you two shared for all those years? What is your purpose if the job of investing into your marriage is taken away? Who is my closest companion when my other half isn’t here?
Widowhood is feeling restless because you lost your home, identity, partner, lover, friend, playmate, travel companion, co-parent, security, and life. And you are drifting with an unknown destination. Widowhood is living in a constant state of missing the most intimate relationship. No hand to hold. No body next to you. No partner to share your burden.
Widowhood is being alone in a crowd of people. Feeling sad even while you’re happy. Feeling guilty while you live. It is looking back while moving forward. It is being hungry but nothing sounding good. It is every special event turning bittersweet.
Yes. It is much more than simply missing their presence. It is becoming a new person, whether you want to or not. It is fighting every emotion mankind can feel at the very same moment and trying to function in life at the same time.
Widowhood is frailty. Widowhood is strength. Widowhood is darkness. Widowhood is rebirth.
Widowhood…..is life changing.”
I have felt all of those things at times, especially the disconnect and disorientation that comes with now existing in this new alien world. But I also realize that I DO have a destination in mind, a purpose. I have not lost my faith in Jesus Christ. I know that I am not doing this alone.
So, will life feel the same here at eight months out as it will at eight years? Probably not exactly the same. I don’t know that that ache will ever completely go away during this mortal life, though. I do think I’m learning to better recognize and appreciate those moments of joy that are sprinkled throughout my day-to-day life, probably because they contrast so sharply against the feelings on the other side of the emotional spectrum that I also experience more regularly now. And always, always, always, everything now coexists with that ever-present sadness and longing for what I can’t have. At least, can’t have now.
That’s probably how it is supposed to be. When you love deeply, of course you grieve deeply. Of course experiences like this stretch us and change how we view the world. But I get to choose what I focus on. Back to that dichotomy again, I actually think I feel more gratitude in my life now than before Kendall got sick. No, I know I do. I’m also less anxious, because really, things like flooding or construction delays or financial setbacks or challenging parenting problems, they all pale in comparison with losing my husband. (Meds probably help with that, too.) Down deep I do have an overall sense of calmness and assurance that things will ultimately be OK. I’m learning how to allow Jesus Christ to be the author of my story. And that’s not such a bad thing.
(And sticking with that brutal honesty I’m aiming for, I’ll include this less than flattering picture of me last week after I’d been crying. Many of my evenings still look like this after the kids are in bed, although no longer every single one now. So overall that’s progress, and evidence of the healing I know is happening. Slowly, yes, but it IS happening.)
