My name is Karen and I am a Widow

The hardest part of my day is dinner time. After a long day — made even longer when sleep slips away and morning arrives before dawn — the dinner hour feels quieter than any other. Preparing a meal for just myself feels tedious, and my appetite is minimal. Food doesn’t interest me the way it once did. More often than not, I find myself slurping soup or picking at salad greens simply to fill the space.

In recent years I wasn’t doing much cooking for Rich and me, but we still managed to sit down to something “respectable.” Dinner was our time to reconnect, to share conversation, to be together. Now it’s just me… and David Muir on the TV.

Since Richard died, I’ve made many attempts to get out, meet new people, and build new connections. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. It depends on where you go, who you meet, and what you’re hoping to find. I remind myself often that I still have a voice, and I still get to choose how I move forward on this unexpected journey.

I call this chapter of my life a journey I stumbled into — not by choice, but by circumstance. And like any journey, I can explore it and maybe discover something golden at the end of the rainbow… or I can tether myself to one spot and wait for life to happen around me.

Life is short, no matter what age we die. We all like to believe there will be more time tomorrow, but the truth is that all we really have is today. When we seize the moment, we can find pieces of happiness we once believed died with our loved one.

Some people assume that because I’m not grieving the way they expect, I must not have loved Rich as intensely as they loved their partner. My response is simple: love is not a competition, and neither is grief. Love is personal. Grief is personal. No two people love the same, and no two people grieve the same. As humans, we owe each other empathy.

Empathy is not sympathy. Empathy means sensing another person’s feelings without absorbing them, fixing them, or feeling responsible for them. When practiced mindfully, empathy becomes the authentic support we all need during grief.

Understanding grief is essential — yet it’s not something we’re taught. We learn it through experience, and often through the cultural rules we grew up with.

Every culture — even every household — has its own expectations around grief. I’ve shared this story many times, and I’ll share it again.

Growing up in a traditional Jewish home, when my Baube (my mother’s mother) died, we sat Shiva at my Aunt Jean’s house. It was a large home with a living room, dining room, rumpus room, and a den. After the funeral, the house filled with friends and family. My mother and her two sisters sat together in the den.

I was nine years old — sad, confused, and trying to be “lady-like,” as instructed. But then I heard laughter coming from the den. I was furious. How could they laugh at a time like this? We were supposed to be sad. We were supposed to cry.

I marched into the room and told them, in my stern nine-year-old voice, that they needed to stop laughing.

My mother gently explained that they were sharing memories — and memories sometimes make you laugh. They had so many beautiful stories that helped soften the sadness and carry them into tomorrow.

That moment became a lifelong lesson. It’s not that I never feel sad or lost in the past — I do. But I’ve built tools and coping mechanisms that help me walk through life with intention. I accept that life isn’t easy, but it becomes easier when I focus on the positive, including every step that has brought me to the present.

There’s a reason it’s called the present: Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift — even when life feels sad and gray.

I am blessed to know that whatever I do today can improve my tomorrows. So, I pledge to be the best version of myself, using the energy of my husband to propel me forward.

If I can do it, so can you. No one has to walk alone.

Join me on my journey. #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com