Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 38–

Stop Saying, “I Can’t”

We can become our own worst enemy when we keep telling ourselves, “I can’t.” My father always insisted we could do “it,” even if “it” turned out to be something different than what we imagined. I’ve shared before that my father, grandfather, and brothers all had a gift for writing — prose came naturally to them. I, on the other hand, felt like I wrote with two left feet, the odd duck in a family of storytellers.

My father encouraged me to find my own talents, but I kept focusing on what I believed I couldn’t do instead of what I could. It took most of my life — and one advanced college course — to finally understand that focusing on the positive truly does quiet the negative.

We get trapped in our own heads, telling ourselves things we would never say to another living soul. We can be so harsh with ourselves that we sabotage our own happiness.

Losing my husband of 42 years is painful, lonely, and at times I want to scream into the universe that it’s unfair. But all the screaming, crying, and resisting won’t change the reality. I can feel those emotions — I should feel them — but I also need to shape them into something healthier for myself and for those around me. The process isn’t easy, but it doesn’t have to be unbearable. We have an innate ability to create happiness; we don’t have to wait for someone else to hand it to us.

It begins with wanting to find the small smile trembling behind the frown — a frown that has become a habit we can gently erase.

I remind myself how lucky I was to meet Richard and build a life of love and friendship with him. I let myself remember the ups and downs, keeping it honest and holding onto what completes me. I’m learning to live for both of us as I explore new relationships — not intimate ones, because that’s not what I want right now — but connections that help me grow. I’m giving myself the freedom, without judgment, to choose my next steps.

I have no timeline. I’m learning to live moment by moment. I spent so much of my life wishing for tomorrow that I missed opportunities right in front of me.

Yesterday I spent the day in bed — not from grief, but from a migraine I allowed to brew into a storm. I knew what to do to stop it, or at least soften it, but my stubbornness made it worse. When I finally chose to “get better,” everything shifted. The migraine receded, my energy returned, and the storm passed.

Grief is its own kind of pain, and we have tools to help us process it. Just as medication and exercises can ease a headache, we can learn to manage how we respond to sadness.

Your journey is yours alone. No one else can fully understand or relate to what you feel. What we can ask for is empathy without judgment — support from those who walk beside us. For someone who has never grieved deeply, our experience can feel like a foreign language.

Life and death are intertwined. We don’t have a map for where life will take us. We have some control, with detours along the way, but only some. Knowing this can be comforting or frightening, depending on where our thoughts settle. It brings me back to what I learned in that college course: hold now close.

As I sit in my office — redesigned since Rich passed — I feel him with me. I’ve surrounded myself with family photos, many of Richard, watching over me as I work. I think about my best buddy countless times a day. I miss him deeply, but I’m learning to be grateful for the 42 years we shared: the hugs, the kisses, the intimacy, even the arguments. Those arguments shaped us, helped us grow into strong, independent people.

Because of Richard, I believe I am a better mother, sister, aunt, and friend. My best buddy helped me become the woman I am proud to be — a woman who wants to help others find their comfort zone and gently expand it, day by day.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com