Widowhood Stole My Identity. I'm Throwing Off the Shackles and Taking It Back.

“I belong to the people I love, and they belong to me. They, and the love and loyalty I give them, form my identity far more than any word or group ever could.”
Veronica Roth, Allegiant

A Keeping It Real Post

When your husband dies, he takes part of you with him. I’m not talking about our hearts and known futures, although that is painfully true. When he dies, we lose our identity as a wife and partner. Who are we now? Who are we without him? After him?

We flail about trying to figure this new life out. My flailings on this grief journey have been the subject of The Wandering Widow for the last three-and-a-half years. If you’ve been following along the last few months, you know I’ve been closely examining the other end of that spectrum. Is it possible to “outgrow” the widow identity that was forced upon us? If so, how does that work? And what happens next?

The Shackles of Grief

Wait! What? I didn’t steal my identity, why do I have to wear these?

In the early days, many of us fight the acceptance of this new Widow identity to which we’re suddenly shackled. In an instant, we go from total freedom in life to wearing handcuffs, despite the fact we didn’t commit the identity theft. We hate them. They are confining, painful, and terrifying.

I rebelled against anything resembling the image of widowhood I’d had in my head. I refused to wear black or to say the word Widow. Even now, you’re still more likely to hear me refer to other widows as W’s. I ran away from home and the constant reminders of the handcuffs I couldn’t disguise or ignore in my hometown.

Handcuffs or Security Blanket?

But somewhere along the way, I got used to those handcuffs. Comfortable, even. Over time, I not only became used to the word, Widow, my identity as one became my security blanket. I became The Wandering Widow, grief and bereavement blogger extraordinaire. Those handcuffs became my Wonder Woman bracelets, keeping people from seeing me, and deflecting any attention away from the woman I was becoming.

Late Husbands

I even got used to using late husband in conversation. I have some hilarious travel stories about how comedically bad “late husband” doesn’t translate in some languages. Like the time I met a fellow traveler who asked, “Are you alone, or is your husband late?” He didn’t get why I was laughing when I replied, “Both, actually,” but his wife was ready for the ground to swallow them whole.

Or the countless times I mentioned my late husband in conversation and the person I was speaking with responded, “He’s late? What time will he be arriving?” (Dear Google Translate, help.)

Random Aside: There is an interesting conversation happening in some grief groups about our choice of death words. The deceased aren’t late or passed. They are dead. I agree that we need to destigmatize death and grief, and candy coating it doesn’t help. But referring to D as my Dead Husband in conversation still feels awkward and abrupt. Perhaps that’s the whole point?

Two Sizes Too Small

Here’s the thing. We will always be widows, even if we remarry. Widowhood is forever part of who we are. It’s just not all we are. At some point, we grow out of widowhood being our primary identity. Over time, it no longer fits, and those handcuffs start cutting off our circulation.

Or maybe it’s just me. I’ve reached the stage where it’s no longer my first thought processor. I will never forget him, but the fact that my husband died has become an afterthought in my daily life. I can go weeks without thinking about him. Or at least I could until I came home. Here in Boise, people are so used to seeing me with those handcuffs on they’ve forgotten what I look like without them.

What Now?

Turns out I had the key all along. I just had to be ready to let them go.

So who am I now? I’m still figuring that out. I will always be a wanderer and a widow, but it’s time for The Wandering Widow to hang it up. You see, I’ve figured out I’ve had the key to the handcuffs all along. I just had to be ready to let them go.

I can’t thank you enough for following along as I’ve made my way on this grief journey. Your messages of support and connection have helped fuel me on some of the roughest days. What lies ahead? I don’t know. But I hope you’ll stick around to see where it takes me.

XOXO,
Lisa
Live Now. Dream Big. Love Fierce.

P.S. I’m not going anywhere. Just like I write about grief and bereavement in my fiction and poetry, I’ll still be here to report on whatever new things I find on my grief journey.

D was a cop. I found these as I was unpacking the last of his boxes.

Post Soundtrack

The Journey, Lea Salonga

Half the world is sleeping
Half the world’s awake
Half can hear their hearts beat
Half just hear them break
I am but a traveler, in most every way
Ask me what you want to know

What a journey it has been
And the end is not in sight
But the stars are out tonight
And they’re bound to guide my way
When they’re shining on my life
I can see a better day
I won’t let the darkness in

What a journey it has been
I have been to sorrow
I have been to bliss
Where I’ll be tomorrow
I can only guess
Through the darkest desert
Through the deepest snow
Forward, always forward, I go

What a journey it has been
Forward, always forward
Onward, always up
Catching every drop of hope
In my empty cup

Widowhood Stole My Identity. I’m Throwing Off the Shackles and Taking It Back.