Don’t Call Me a Widow, My Name is Karen

Don’t Call me a Widow Part 96 – I am Pouting Today

I have never been a pouter. Not once in my entire adult life. (Ok maybe once or twice or one hundred or more times). I marched into marriage at 21 with the full instruction manual handed down from my paternal grandmother: “Grin and bear it.” So, I did. I grinned, I bore, I tried to be the perfect wife — until I failed at perfection, collected those failures, and repurposed them into positive footprints.

But today? Oh, today I am absolutely not feeling it. Today marks eight months since I drove Rich to the ER because he was weak and ill. Eight months since the doctor said “COVID,” even though he was fully vaccinated. And if you’ve followed my blog, you know what came next: double pneumonia within 24 hours, cardiac arrest on the evening of January 19th, and a week of praying for a miracle I knew wasn’t coming.

Alex and I spent that week talking to him, playing his favorite music, keeping his sitcoms on standby — and yes, I even offered him sex if he’d just wake up. I figured if anything could bring a man back from the brink, that might do it. Apparently not.

Cleveland was in one of its coldest, grayest moods that week, but every breath Rich took gave me a little sunshine. It didn’t end the way I wanted it scripted, but it gave me the strength to start rewriting the story I didn’t ask to be in.

For eight months, I’ve been building a life for myself, using Rich’s energy to step forward even when it felt like a sinkhole was waiting at the end of the path. But then there are days — like today — when everything feels off, and my inner self is tugging me toward negativity like it’s auditioning for a role.

Yesterday I got a message reminding me I had a bone scan today. Last week I had a 70‑minute heart MRI. Tuesday it was laser treatment on my left eye. And let’s not forget the broken ribs I’m still nursing. I showed up for the scan only to be turned away because no one told me to stop my supplements — and last week’s MRI used contrast. So, I politely rescheduled and left. (Stay tuned for next Wednesday’s episode of Karen vs. Healthcare.)

On the way home, I stopped at Anytime Fitness to sign up for my Medicare membership. They told me they were too busy to help and would call me when their schedule permitted. I guess invisibility is part of the membership perks. (For the record, I called earlier this week and tried to enroll online.)

So yes, I am choosing to pout. I am tired of accepting what is. This part of my personality is temporary — pouting never gives me the gratification I want — but today it feels justified. As I used to say to Rich all the time: It is what it is.

Choosing to pout feels tempting when life hands you seasons you never asked for. It doesn’t change the circumstances, but today I’m giving myself the moment.
Choosing to pout is always an option, even if it’s not the one that moves us forward. I will reclaim my agency — just not this minute.
Some days pouting is the most honest response. Once it passes, I’ll choose differently. I always do.

I need to remember that even when life hands me lemons, it’s not just about squeezing the juice. I need to plant the seeds and grow something that actually benefits me. I need to notice the fragrance, color, and texture — and use them to my advantage.

I need to acknowledge the bitterness and disappointment as an invitation to challenge my intentions.

And I need to see the sourness for what it is: my moment to pout before I step outside and change the paradigm.

Please follow my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call me a Widow Part 95 It’s OK to Move On

I am so proud of my friend Donna.

She is remarkable because she is teaching me, simply by the way she is living her life, that even in the midst of heartbreak, we can find joy again. We can find love again. And sometimes, we discover that love was never really gone.

Love isn’t necessarily romantic. It is a mixed emotion—a complex sensation, as unique as a snowflake. It doesn’t look or feel the same for everyone. Love can be intimacy, passion, commitment, friendship, desire, comfort, and even, at times, a little bit of “hate” mixed in. We are human, after all, and none of us is perfect. Not everything that makes up our relationships will fit neatly into one definition of love.

I met Donna after she had entered her current phase of grief. She admits that, as independent as she always believed herself to be, not having her husband—her partner—beside her was truly devastating.

I know from our conversations that if she could bring her husband back, despite the path she has forged for herself, she would take him back in a heartbeat.

But she has also learned something profound: he will never come back, and at the same time, he has never really left.

She speaks about her husband. She reflects on their commitment to one another. She carries the memories of their life together. And somehow, through all of that sorrow, she has found a way to dance through life again.

I am not a religious person. I grew up with family traditions, many of which have become pleasant memories tucked into my own book of life. But even without being religious, I do believe that if I am still breathing, I have a responsibility to myself to make the most of each day—even if “making the most” sometimes means taking only a marginal step forward.

Choosing to blog, creating podcasts that provide opportunities for people living challenging lives, and becoming a life coach have all given me purpose. Even on my toughest days, I have moments of clarity. I look for the smile and the sun behind the clouds—the little things that pull me, inch by inch, onto this new path.

And here is what I want you to know:

Even if you are stuck in your grief, even if you believe you are not “OK,” you are still moving forward if you are allowing yourself to think, reflect, dream, and imagine what comes next. You are weaving a path for yourself, even when you cannot yet see where it leads.

None of us chooses this path when we say, “Until death do us part.” We are pledging a lifetime together.

Physically, we may become separated from our spouses, but no one can take away the love, friendship, memories, intimacy, and private world we shared with them. That space may feel painfully empty today, but it doesn’t mean the relationship has disappeared.

Just like my friend Donna, we can take what that person gave us—their love, their memories, their energy—and use it to propel ourselves forward.

We can do it.

But sometimes, we need to watch someone else take that first step before we believe we can take ours.

Yesterday, I virtually watched my friend Donna take a huge step. She attended a concert alone, surrounded by hundreds of other people.

She was excited. She was apprehensive. She was anxious.

She took all of those emotions, mixed them together, walked through the doors—and discovered that it was a wonderful experience. More importantly, she created a new memory for herself.

And I decided to follow her lead.

I love live theater. Here in Cleveland, we are fortunate to have the incredible Playhouse Square. So today, I am going online and treating myself to an upcoming live performance.

And I am going to go by myself.

Because I don’t need a partner to enjoy something I love.

And I know Rich would be proud of me for doing something just for me.

Donna will also be joining me on my newest podcast, Don’t Call Me a Widow. Our first conversation will focus on Newfound Independence: How to Handle It and Give Yourself Grace.

I want us to begin with something that may feel hard—but is absolutely doable.

And we are looking for experts to join us.

You are an expert if you have pivoted in your life—whether by choice or by circumstance. Maybe you were forced onto a new path. Maybe you chose it. Either way, if you have learned how to navigate change, rediscover yourself, or create a new life, your experience matters.

If you would like to participate in this podcast, please follow the email information at the end of this post. Our conversation will be scheduled for November.

Let’s help each other through the end of 2026.

And let’s make 2027 the year for you.

If you want to know more about Donna please check out the following: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjfUaaIOmOc&list=PLSdL23sBfggnxsmdQqGo9RkAGXW8nVswy&index=3&t=21s

Follow my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call me a Widow Part 94 Pivoting

If widowhood has taught me anything, it’s this: this is my life now. Not the life I expected, not the one I planned, but the one I’m living—and the one I’m learning to honor.

When I was growing up in the 50s and early 60s, there was a TV show called This Is Your Life, hosted by Ralph Edwards. He would surprise his guests by walking them through the chapters of their lives, bringing out friends and family to share memories. As a child, I didn’t realize how deeply that show would imprint on me. It taught me that every step we take—every joy, every heartbreak—becomes part of the story that leads us to today.

Lately, I’ve been taking time to look back at where I came from and all the ups and downs that shaped me. It’s funny how certain moments once felt like the worst thing imaginable, yet with distance, they soften. Sometimes they even become tender memories, reminders of how far we’ve come.

This past year has thrown me into situations I never asked for, never planned for, and certainly never expected. But life doesn’t follow our timeline. It surprises us—sometimes painfully, sometimes beautifully.

Just the other night, a friend told me she was stepping out of her comfort zone. She wanted to see a concert but couldn’t find anyone to go with her. Instead of staying home, she chose to go alone. She admitted she was excited, but her anxiety was buzzing. A little while ago she messaged me—she had arrived, she felt more comfortable than she expected, and she was ready to sway and rock with the music.

That’s what life does. It hands us moments that remind us who we are becoming. She, too, is a widow who took the time she needed to grieve, to rediscover herself, and to love the woman her husband loved. Now she loves herself, as she should.

But loving ourselves is hard. We can be so critical, so unforgiving, so quick to doubt our worth. And when we finally begin to live in a way that feels true and meaningful, some people get uncomfortable. Everyone has an opinion, but unless they’ve walked in our shoes, they cannot understand the terrain.

As I write these daily blogs, I’m mindful of widows and widowers who feel stuck in grief, who believe they would be better off gone. I understand that loneliness. I understand the fear. And yet, I was raised to live as fully as I can, even in the hardest moments.

This past month, recovering from my accident, my world became very small. But I chose to see each tiny improvement as a step forward. When I was finally allowed to get up and use the bathroom in the hospital—that was a step. When I came home and, by day two, could sleep in my own bed instead of the recliner—that was another step. Each one made me feel lighter, happier, more hopeful. I’m fully recovered now but still learning what feels good and what works for me.

Today, I took another step. I was ready to join the rec center for moderate exercise and maybe meet new people. As it turns out, my Medicare plan doesn’t cover the rec center—but it does cover Anytime Fitness, less than a mile from my home. So tomorrow, I’ll enroll.

And yes, I’m anxious. I haven’t been to Anytime Fitness since COVID. Rich and I used to go together in the mornings, walking side by side on the treadmills. Tomorrow, I’ll walk in alone—carrying my memories with me and making new ones.

Life isn’t easy. Neither is winning the lottery. You have to reach for the brass ring, and if you never reach, you’ll never touch it. So, at 76, I’m still reaching.

Please keep following these posts. I’m beginning a new series of Don’t Call Me a Widow, and I’ve invited a few friends to help shape the podcast and journal.

Here are some of the themes we’re exploring:

Adult children & codependency — leaning on them is okay; becoming dependent is not.
Friendships — new, old, shifting, evolving.
Dating — the good, the bad, and the unrealistic.
Discovering or rediscovering yourself.
Newfound independence — how to handle it and give yourself grace.
Do’s and don’ts for the newly widowed.
When friends and family don’t accept the “new you.”
Emergency contacts — who they are and what information matters.
Feeling hurt, angry, sad, happy, joyful, and confused—sometimes all at once.
Navigating life as a single person.

We’re also building a list of professionals to invite such as: estate lawyers, financial planners, counselors, mental health advisors, grief specialists, repair companies, insurance agents, Medicare experts, and tax advisors.

Your input will be valuable as we move forward.

Follow my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Window Part 93 Didn’t Know How I was Going to Feel

Grief and loss have a strange sense of humor. Some days we cry until our bodies feel emptied out, and other days we move through the world numb, or surprisingly steady, or even quietly alive.

For 365 days, I’ve been bracing myself for how I would feel on the anniversary of losing my brother. I never truly mourned him—not in the way a sister longs to. In those early days, shock took over, and my instinct was to support TL and Rachael. And my son Alex… his heartbreak was its own universe. He adored Joel. Their bond was deep and rare.

Now, one year later, I’m still standing at a crossroads of emotion. Part of me wants to scream, part of me wants to collapse into tears, and part of me hears Joel’s voice nudging me forward: Keep truckin’, sis. He never cared much for attention, and even that beautiful Celebration of Life at Caffè Lena—he would have rolled his eyes and said it was for us, not for him.

What most people haven’t seen over these 366 days is how Joel’s death quietly fractured our family. I share this now because the ripple effects have shaped my grief for Joel—and for my husband, Richard—in ways I never expected.

I can hear both of them telling me, Just be you. But when I see others hurting, I tend to pour myself outward. And this past year, that instinct hasn’t served me.

This year has felt like a quiet, exhausting battle. We’ve waited for TL to let us in, or to let us hold her up. Instead, she has chosen distance, offering emojis when words were needed. When Richard died—just as suddenly and brutally as Joel—her only words were, “It’s hard.” A phrase she uses often, a phrase that seems to mean she cannot or will not connect.

My heart aches for Rachael, Zuzu, and Griffin. They, too, have been met with silence. And yes—grief is hard. But grief is also proof that we were lucky enough to love someone so deeply that their absence rearranges us.

And if we truly loved Joel, we know he would want us to stop, breathe, and live.

So, I am choosing to live. I am choosing to carry Joel’s energy alongside Richard’s and move forward with intention.

I am choosing to hold onto the good memories—the ones that show Joel as the devoted son, the phenomenal father and Poppa, the loving uncle, the loyal friend.

I am choosing not to let anyone erase who Joel was in my life.

I am choosing to remember that heirlooms, even if someday tossed into a trash bag, are not as precious as the stories, the laughter, the music, and the love he left behind.

I am choosing to honor Joel in the way he would want—by living fully, by loving fiercely, by telling the truth.

And I am choosing to listen to Richard’s steady reminder: No one can take your memories away.

So today is the first day of the rest of my life. And I will continue to share, with anyone who wants to listen, how extraordinary my brother Joel still is to me.

If you never met him, visit his website. His music, his words, his spirit—they’re all still there. Joel’s legacy has always been about people. And he lives in my heart, beautifully and permanently.

https://managramusic.com/site/

Follow my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t’ Call me a Widow Part 92 – Live

Week five, and I can finally say—with complete honesty—that I feel myself recovering. For the past three weeks I’ve taken only minimal Tylenol, because the discomfort has become manageable, softening a little more each day. I’ll admit that when I push too hard, my ribs remind me I’m still healing. But I’m learning to listen to my body—not only in recovery, but as I continue moving forward.

After seventeen years of falls, fractures, and unexpected injuries, I’ve come to understand the importance of mindfulness. Accidents happen even when we’re careful. It’s not as though I’m scaling mountains or leaping out of airplanes. I’m simply living each day to its fullest, because I refuse to reach the end of my life feeling disappointed by what I didn’t do.

For some, “living fully” might include daredevil adventures. That’s their choice. My suggestion is simply that we all stay mindful of the safety factors that matter. And honestly, some days I feel like a daredevil just driving down the street.

When I say I’m living my fullest life, it may look quiet to some and like “a senior on steroids” to others. Every day is different—what I do, how I do it, and how I feel while doing it. What I want to offer is this: each of us can find happiness and contentment in our own way.

Most weekends I spend alone—not always by choice, but that’s how it unfolds. Married friends are busy with their spouses or families, and as the new widow on the block, I try not to intrude. Many of my single friends have grandchildren nearby, and their weekends revolve around family. Others travel often, and travel has never been part of my rhythm. So, I’ve chosen to be alone, even as I’ve created a bi‑weekly Saturday Mahjong group that brings connection and laughter into my life.

For those of us in this club we never asked to join—and for those who will one day find themselves here—it’s essential that we offer empathy, kindness, and connection. We need to stop thinking of widows and widowers as the “third wheel” or “fifth wheel.” Three friends can get together. Five friends can get together. We can change the paradigm. It’s up to us.

During Rosh Hashanah services this weekend, the theme of many sermons was belonging. Whether or not we want to belong to this club, we are part of it. And we can choose to come together with understanding. We don’t need to become best friends with everyone, but we can acknowledge the path we’re walking and encourage healing along the way.

I repeat this often because it matters: we have a choice in how we live out our days. I refuse to choose loneliness or sadness. I will not give up the days in front of me.

And if I’m honest, if the roles were reversed, Rich would not be sitting alone in sorrow. He knew himself well. He teased me endlessly, but he also knew how to build a circle—and his circle would have included women, as it always did. Knowing he wouldn’t have spent his days mourning, I’ve chosen not to either. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. It doesn’t mean I’m forgetting him or replacing him. It simply means I’m taking my next steps.

I wake up each day with a purpose: to live. So even on the weekends when I find myself alone, I live.

Please join me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 91 Wishing Away the Time…

All living creatures — whether we realize it or not — spend most of life leaning toward the future. We plan tomorrow before today has even ended. We wish for things to be different without creating a real path for change. And then we wonder why we feel sorrow, or why happiness feels out of reach.

Our thoughts often tilt toward negativity because the human brain is built that way. Biology, evolution, and emotional conditioning pull us toward discomfort. The brain is wired for fight or flight; missing a threat could be dangerous, while missing something pleasant rarely harms us. So, the negative gets louder.

For those who grieve, sadness and heavy thoughts linger not because we want to suffer, but because feeling is necessary before healing begins. Grief demands attention. It asks to be acknowledged. And healing is not forgetting — it’s not disconnecting from love or emotion. Healing is finding our own rhythm, stepping forward, and learning to dance with life again.

The truth is we never stop grieving. We simply grow around it. The bond remains, but the impact softens. Each step we take helps us glide into our future.

We’ve all been granted life, and it is a personal choice how we live it — and what legacy we leave behind.

I choose not to waste life. Not every day will be perfect. Not every day will be joyful. But guided by what surrounds me, I take one step at a time.

I will not sleepwalk through the rest of my days.
I will not let grief freeze me in time.
I will not wait for someone else to make me happy; I will create my own happiness.
I will not allow myself to be lonely, but I will choose when to be alone.

Allow yourself to choose the direction you want to take:

Show up for yourself.
Create your purpose.
Honor those you’ve loved by stepping forward.
Promote kindness, beginning with giving yourself grace.
Become the architect of your life — maybe for the first time.

Anne Frank wrote, “Our lives are fashioned by our choices. First we make our choices. Then our choices make us.”
And she was right.

Join me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me w Widow Part 90 – I FEEL LIKE SCREAMING

I feel like screaming. Yes — it’s painful, sad, heart‑wrenching, lonely, and every other word you can use to describe losing your person. Whether you lived through a long goodbye or never had the chance to say one, the reality is simple: it sucks.

Death is part of life, but knowing that doesn’t make living any easier. What it really means is that love, memory, connection, and meaning don’t end when someone’s physical presence does. The relationship changes form, but it doesn’t disappear. I’ve been walking that truth every day since Rich and Joel died, and I had to make a conscious choice not to carry the sadness around every hour of every day.

The wonderful, chaotic, love‑filled life I’ve lived comes with grief woven into it — and I have to embrace that without letting it swallow me whole. I’ve shared before that I choose to carry the energy Richard created in his life and left behind for me. That energy is mine to move forward with.

Making choices is how I shape my life. If I could offer one gift to anyone who is grieving, it would be this: make a choice. Start small. Build from there. Shape your grief into something that brings you comfort or pleasure.

Choose to honor yourself. Take a shower. Put on a cute outfit. Get your hair done. Have a spa day. Treat yourself to your favorite meal.

Choose to create new routines and circles. Join a club. Start walking. Exercise. Ask a friend to join you.

Choose to show up for someone. Listen to your heart but let your brain guide the action.

Choose words of positivity and kindness. A shift in language can turn a frown into a smile.

Choose to speak or write your thoughts. Journaling makes your feelings real — and sometimes hearing your own words gives you the push you need.

Choose to belong — don’t wait to be invited. No one knows what you need. You have to make life happen.

It’s not easy, but it is doable.

Get up each morning and push yourself. Feel the energy of that special person who would want you to get up and go.

It’s OK to go to a church or temple alone. It’s OK to eat in a restaurant alone. No one is judging your solitude.

Allow people into your life. You get to choose who fits and who doesn’t. Community isn’t a popularity contest.

And know that it’s OK to talk about your loss. Each time you speak it, the sharpness softens.

So, before I scream loud enough to scare you off, hear this: Grief is real — but we have the power to soften it and to live more fully.

None of us has to be alone. And just because your phone isn’t ringing today doesn’t mean it will be silent tomorrow. Sometimes we have to make the first call or knock on someone’s door.

Reach out.

Join me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t’ Call Me a Window Part 89 Sadness doesn’t go way…

This morning, as many of us prepared for a day of 9/11 remembrance, something else quietly surfaced for many people: newer losses, fresh grief, and the familiar heaviness that sadness brings. We often ask, “When will my sadness go away?” The truth is that sadness never fully disappears — but it can change, and when it does, grief becomes less consuming.

Scientifically, sadness softens when the brain stops interpreting grief as danger. In the early stages of loss, memories, dates, places, photographs, and stories trigger a stress response. The nervous system goes into protection mode. Until the brain fully understands that the loss is real and that we are not in immediate danger, sadness will continue to feel sharp and overwhelming.

But the body does adjust. As cortisol levels drop, sleep becomes more regulated, and the nervous system stops firing unnecessary alarms, we begin to shift into a more grounded, livable emotional space.

In the beginning, grief needs room to exist. It’s important to recognize the sadness mixed with fear — fear of change, fear of the unknown, fear of old emotions resurfacing after lying dormant. Asking “Why me?” is normal. Understanding that you are not alone, and that you have the ability to take steps toward healing, is essential.

The first step toward wellness reduces the tension placed on your nervous system. One intentional breath can lower emotional intensity. With each additional breath, you create space to feel lighter, to let memories guide you rather than overwhelm you.

Sadness changes when we choose to rebuild our lives. As we create new routines, new relationships, and new purpose, grief begins to soften. We are not “moving on” — we are moving forward. Grief may follow, but it no longer leads us into danger.

Eventually, sadness stops frightening us. We learn that we can survive these feelings, and in doing so, we reclaim our power. We have a choice — and choosing to live fully is how we soften the sadness that grief leaves behind. Too often our grief is used as comfort and that is unhealthy. When your thoughts and choices keep you from moving forward you are being disrespectful to yourself as well as the that special person. It is imperative to live as fully as possible. To live fully is an individual choice as well as an honor to the person who has passed on. Choose to step forward.

Eventually, sadness stops frightening us. We learn that we can survive these feelings, and in that survival we reclaim our power. We do have a choice — and choosing to live fully is what softens the sadness grief leaves behind.

Too often, grief becomes a place we hide because it feels familiar. But using grief as comfort is unhealthy. When our thoughts and choices keep us from moving forward, we unintentionally dishonor ourselves — and we dishonor the person we lost. Living fully is not a betrayal; it is an act of respect.

To live fully is both a personal decision and a tribute to the one who has passed. It is a way of saying: Your love shaped me, and I will carry that love into the life I still have left to live.

Choose to step forward.

Follow my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 88 – Walking through Grief

As Rosh Hashanah approaches, I’m reminded that this season invites us to pause, to reflect, and to be honest with ourselves. It asks us to look at our lives with vulnerability, to acknowledge where we’ve fallen short, and to seek forgiveness with a genuine willingness to make amends. Becoming our best selves isn’t one dramatic leap — it’s a series of small, truthful choices we make again and again. We reach for it the way we reach for perfection: knowing it’s never fully attainable yet still choosing to try.

This year, I’m choosing truth. Not the polished version, not the softened version — the real one.

Grief is complicated, dramatic and deeply human.

As I move forward in the new year I am searching for connection, identity, belonging, family, safety, and the best version of myself..

On Tuesday, September 15th, 2025, I received a call I never expected. My brother Joel died. He was the healthiest of the three of us, and for months before his death, he and I were focused on our older brother Gary’s declining health. Despite the miles between us, we stayed connected through daily calls — offering love, support, and the kind of sibling closeness that had carried us through our entire lives.

Just weeks before Joel died, we had one of our long conversations after yet another fall and broken bones on my end. His last words to me were, “Stop falling!” I can still hear his voice.

When the phone rang at midnight on September 15th, everything inside me shifted. Shock. Disbelief. And then instinct — I knew I needed to be present for TL, for Rachael, for Zuzu and Griffin, for Gary, and for my son Alex. Even while drowning in my own grief, I stepped into support mode because that’s what family does.

But here is the unpolished truth: Joel’s sudden death fractured our family, and the break has been painful. Joel would never have wanted this distance, this silence, this separation.

I believe everyone grieves differently — there is no right or wrong way. But when grief becomes a wall instead of a bridge, when one person’s pain eclipses everyone else’s, the consequences ripple outward. And that is what has happened.

Saratoga Springs and Caffè Lena honored Joel beautifully. But before that celebration, the immediate family never had the chance to mourn together, to prepare, or to find closure. A hush fell over everything — an unspoken separation between TL and the rest of us — and as the one-year mark approaches, the sadness of that reality sits heavily on my heart.

My mother used to say, “Don’t hang out your dirty laundry for the neighbors to see.” But after a year of being excluded from my brother’s life, the hurt has become too deep to keep quiet.

When

I traveled to Saratoga Springs last October, I wasn’t invited into Joel’s home. I needed to see his things, breathe the air he breathed, feel his energy — but that opportunity was denied, even when I asked. Joel was my brother for 75 years, and in one phone call, he was gone. I have memories, yes, and I’ve reached out to people who loved him to keep his spirit close. But the connection I needed — the one TL withheld — still aches.

I always considered TL family. I tried to cultivate a sisterly relationship from day one. But her way of grieving has shut out not only me, but others who loved Joel deeply. That choice has consequences, and we are living them.

This year, I needed my brother more than ever. Soon after Joel died, Gary’s medical issues became urgent, and I stepped into the role Joel always held — the steady voice, the grounding presence. Joel had a way of speaking that made everyone listen, even when he was teasing or bluffing. I’m not built like that, so the support I offered felt different, but I gave what I could. Gary is doing better now, but he too has been denied closure. We lean on each other as best we can.

My relationship with my niece Rachael has always been close, and this year has brought us even closer. We both feel like outsiders looking in. My heart aches for her and her children, who still have no access to Joel’s belongings — not even his ashes. We have been robbed of something sacred, and as the one-year mark approaches, the anger is real.

Anyone who truly knew Joel knew that Rachael was his person. He wasn’t just her father — he was her best friend. She grew up quickly because life with Joel demanded it, and he adored her. His world revolved around her, that is one of the major reasons she moved her family to Saratoga Springs.

Rachael and her children deserve time with Joel’s things — the pieces of his life that existed before any of those marriages. These aren’t legal assets. They are memories. They are legacy. They are love.

I personally asked for three items that I consider family heirlooms…These aren’t possessions. They are connection. They are history. They are the threads that tie us to the people we’ve lost.

What I’m asking for — on behalf of my grief — is simple: connection for those of us still living, and the ability to carry Joel’s name and legacy forward. His grandchildren deserve the chance to know him through the things he cherished. Even a scrap of paper can carry a lifetime of love.

Some may say this should have been handled privately, one-on-one. But too much has happened. Too much silence. Too much exclusion.

And layered beneath all of this is another truth: I didn’t just lose my brother. I lost my husband months later.

These griefs are not the same.

Joel was my history, my roots, my childhood, my identity as a sister.
Richard was my partner, my daily life, my future, my belonging.

My heart has been trying to process two identities torn away at once.
One grief is about what I didn’t get to have.
The other is about what I had and lost.

Joel’s death fractured the family system.
Richard’s death fractured my everyday life.

With Joel, the grief is blocked — no access, no rituals, no closure.
With Richard, the grief is living — every routine reminds me of what’s missing.

I was a sister with Joel.
I was a wife with Richard.
Those identities shaped my purpose, my place in the world, my emotional anchor.

Now I’m grieving not only the people, but the future I imagined — the holidays, conversations, milestones, and ordinary mornings that will never come.

And still, I carry my sons, niece, her children, my coaching clients, and my podcast listeners with me. I try to be the emotional anchor for everyone else while quietly rebuilding myself.

This year, as the new year begins, I’m choosing honesty. I’m choosing love. I’m choosing to acknowledge the grief that has shaped me — and the strength that continues to rise from it.

Please join me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t’ Call me a Widow – Part 87 – It’s Never Too Late — Not Even Close

Don’t let anyone tell you it’s too late. It’s never too late.

As long as we have one more breath, one more sunrise, one more stubborn heartbeat, we’re still gloriously alive — and that means the sky is still full of stars with our names on them.

Are you reaching for yours? And if not…what’s holding your hand down?

The Girl Who Wanted In

When I was growing up, I wanted so badly to be part of the popular crowd that I practically tried to shrink myself into their shape. I built a whole imaginary version of me — one who wasn’t good enough, one who hovered on the edges hoping to be noticed.

I carried that insecurity like a little shadow companion through childhood and well into adulthood. It took up space. It whispered. It lied.

And then I turned 60.

Something magical happens at 60 — you stop negotiating with your own worth. You stop auditioning for rooms you don’t even want to be in. You start untangling the knots in your mind and realize you’ve been whole all along.

Over the last 16 years, I’ve grown into myself. I like me. And I’m pretty confident you do too.

Widowhood and the Mirror

As I’ve stepped into widowhood, I’ve learned something essential: The spouse who remains needs a good relationship with themselves, because suddenly there is a lot of quiet, a lot of reflection, and a lot of time spent with your own thoughts.

And in that quiet, you must learn to find the good, the bright spots, the purpose, the parts of yourself that are still blooming.

I spend a lot of time alone — but I’m also deeply committed to my work, my clients, my associates. My communication, both spoken and written, keeps me connected. It shapes my thoughts. It steadies me through this difficult, evolving chapter.

A Small Invitation, A Big Feeling

Last night, while pedaling away on my stationary bike — finally able to fold movement into my healing — I got a text inviting me to dinner tonight.

And I felt…excited.

Not just because I’m ready to get out after staying close to home, but because someone asked. Someone reached toward me. It wasn’t me initiating. It wasn’t me filling the silence. It was someone saying, “Come join me.”

Being asked makes us feel wanted. Being asked makes us feel seen.

The Myth of Widow Invisibility

People say widows and widowers become invisible. And in many ways, it’s true — but not because we fade.

It’s because our culture doesn’t know what to do with people whose lives no longer fit the familiar, comfortable narrative. When you’ve been known as part of a duo, people struggle to recognize you as a singular, whole person.

Our identity shifts. Our title changes. The pairing disappears.

And instead of learning who we are now, many quietly step back.

It’s not that we changed — it’s that they don’t know how to see us.

Widowhood makes others uncomfortable. Our new status is a fragile reminder that life can turn without warning. Our grief makes them question their own vulnerability. We aren’t invisible — we’re too visible for their comfort.

Humans avoid what they can’t fix. Widowhood is not fixable. So, some people retreat.

Divorce vs. Widowhood

When I got divorced, it was easier to move forward. Friendships stayed intact. New ones formed. Divorce, in a strange way, has a clearer social script. Things split down the middle and life continues.

Widowhood is different. It’s not a clean break — it’s a seismic shift.

Becoming Unfamiliar

As I think about becoming a widow, I realize I’m not invisible — I’m unfamiliar. Even to people who love me. They’re seeing me now as me, not the version of me that existed alongside Rich for 42 years.

For some, that’s hard. For some, it changes the relationship.

And I’m learning to see that not as loss, but as evolution — the natural reshaping of my life as I follow the path that feels meaningful and true.

It’s not about throwing out the old or reinventing the new. It’s about walking forward with intention, carrying what matters, releasing what doesn’t, and reaching — always — for the next star.

Please join me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 86 The Holiday is Over

Holidays can be a very lonely time — at least they used to be for me.

Growing up, my family had rituals around every Jewish holiday. The secular ones, though, were mostly “nothing days.” Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Labor Day — they were simply days my parents didn’t work. No picnics, no barbecues, no festive gatherings. The only secular holiday that carried any real tradition for us was Thanksgiving.

As I moved into adulthood and marriage, that pattern followed me. My work schedule often kept me busy while the rest of the world seemed to be celebrating. Holidays were something happening “out there,” not in my home

When Rich died in January, I wondered how those long three‑day weekends would feel. Would they swallow me whole? Would I find myself alone and depressed?

People often say that soon after a loved one dies, the phone stops ringing and the invitations fade. That is painfully true. In the beginning, I heard all the familiar, well‑intended phrases: “I’m here for you,” “Just call if you need anything.” But what I needed most — for the nightmare to end — no one could give me. And as weeks passed, life pulled people back into their routines. I looked “okay” from the outside, so the offers naturally dwindled.

I understand it. We all have obligations, responsibilities, and our own search for joy. Support offered in the early days is sincere, but time has a way of pulling it further and further away. Those who aren’t grieving see a very different picture than the one inside your heart.

Asking for help while grieving is one of the most human, courageous acts — and also one of the hardest. Grief steals your voice. Your thoughts feel foggy. You worry about imposing. But reaching out is essential, and it’s never too late to begin.

Start with yourself:

Name what you’re feeling. Make it clear and simple: “I’m hurting. I don’t want to carry this alone. I need someone to listen.” Speaking your truth is the first step toward healing.
Feel what you’re experiencing. Cry, laugh, rage — whatever comes is part of the process.
Identify grounding words that help you find your footing.
Remember that grief is part of loving. Let the love guide you toward a new path.

As the one grieving, don’t let people fade away without trying to hold the connection. This is the moment when you do have power — the power to ask for what you need.

Choose the kind of support you want:

Emotional support
Practical help
Simple companionship

Keep each request specific. Focus on one need at a time. Acknowledge that your needs will change as you move through grief. And be mindful that others process loss differently — there is no right or wrong way, though some paths are healthier than others.

When you know you need help but can’t articulate it, say:

“I don’t know what I need, but I know I can’t do this alone.” “I’m struggling. I feel alone. I need help.”

Do not apologize for your feelings.

Your emotions are real.
You are allowed to express them.
Accept a helping hand or a listening ear — sometimes that’s all it takes.

You don’t need to be strong while grieving. But through grieving, you will become strong.

Now it’s time to share your journey. #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow-Part 85 – What the Hell is Beeping?

Just when I thought I was finally going to get a decent night’s sleep — the kind where you drool a little and don’t apologize for it — I am jolted awake by a Beeping Sound. Not just any beep. Oh no. This is the unmistakable, soul‑piercing shriek of a smoke alarm.

And not one of the old, cranky smoke alarms from 1997. No. This is one of my brand‑new, installed‑this‑Spring, 10‑year‑battery, NASA‑engineered, supposedly idiot‑proof smoke alarms.

Naturally, it’s the one in my bedroom. Naturally, it’s flashing. Naturally, it’s beeping. Naturally, it’s placed at a height only reachable by NBA players and circus acrobats.

So, what do I do? I call 911 — but politely, because I’m me — and announce, “This is not an emergency, but I need assistance.”

Translation: Please send someone tall.

I explain that I don’t smell smoke, nothing is hot, and unless my bedroom ceiling has suddenly developed asthma, this thing is malfunctioning. But how? Why? Who did I offend?

It’s now 11 p.m. and the Macedonia Fire Department rolls up like I’ve ordered a late‑night pizza. They come in, pull down the smoke alarm — which has now stopped beeping, because of course it has — and stare at it like it’s a toddler who swears they didn’t eat the cookies.

One firefighter is confused. Another checks the device. Another checks the condo for gas leaks, fires, poltergeists, whatever.

Verdict: “Probably dust.”

Dust. Dust set off my state‑of‑the‑art, 10‑year, sealed‑battery, space‑age smoke alarm.

I decide not to reinstall it because I don’t trust it. I place it on my nightstand like a misbehaving child in time‑out.

Two hours later, the little demon beeps again. I hit the reset button three or four times like I’m playing Whack‑A‑Mole. It stops.

I fall asleep. Forty‑five minutes later — BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

Reset, reset. I finally march it downstairs and exile it to the garage.

At 5 a.m., I wake up in a panic, exhausted, dreaming of smoke alarms chasing me through the house.

And honestly? Since Rich died, the house has been auditioning for a reality show called “What Can Break Next?”

Two weeks ago, I tried to open Rich’s closet and the entire organizer — installed just last year — collapsed like it had simply given up on life.

In March, one of my carbon monoxide detectors announced its end‑of‑life like it was delivering a dramatic monologue. Turns out ALL of them were expiring. So, I replaced them. Including last night’s traitor.

Sometimes I swear Rich is messing with me from the other side. The upstairs toilet? Broken. Terry fixed it. Eventually.

Before my injury, I could fix most things myself. I was practically a screwdriver ninja. But now? I have to ask for help. And asking for help has never been my strongest suit. I was raised on the gospel of “Try it yourself first.”

But healing requires help. And sleep. And I would really, truly, deeply love one good night of sleep before the next household appliance decides to file a complaint.

Follow me on this journey. And tell me how YOU deal with the daily nonsense life throws at you — because I’m convinced everyone has their own version of a beeping smoke alarm at 11 p.m.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Window Part 84 – Mel Robbina

Listening to a Mel Robbins podcast this morning I want to share some thoughts with those of you who keep asking the following questions:

When will I feel like myself?
When will I feel like reconnecting with others?
When will I ever stop feeling so sad?

Stop asking because only you can decide and all it takes is inching your way forward. (You can do!)

You and I will never be the same, however; nothing stays the same and the loss of love is not the only predictor of our change. We are constantly evolving and staying in step with the rest of the world is essential for us to be the best version of ourselves. The term today is, “showing up” taking the path that will lead us into our tomorrows.

As for reconnecting with others, this is essential, our biology and psychology are built around community. Connections keeps us alive where as isolation wears us down. To feel more like ourself it is necessary to take the baby steps that will lead us in that direction.

Humans evolve into groups and groups are meant for survival, and no one should have to walk alone.

What does it mean to take the next step?

We each need to identify our purpose, and healing is a good starting point. If we don’t take this opportunity to heal thy self we will suffer and those around us, family, friends, and colleagues will experience our burden. This is the time to ask for support, guidance, and the opportunity to live our life honoring the life of our special person (s). Now is the time to selflessly find peace in the loving memories that will allow us to heal (we will not forget).

When we take a leap into living life more fully we will be propelled by the energy that has been left behind. Allowing that energy to move forward continues to keep that love alive, not just for us, but to all we encounter.

The energy of love is powerful, directive and transformative and we have the ability to pay it forward. The love is not lost we can continue to carry it through life. “Your heart produces an electromagnetic field measurable several feet beyond your body. When you feel love, compassion, or connection, that field becomes more coherent, more stable, more harmonious.” (Unknown author)

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call me a Widow Part 83 – 4 weeks into recovery

Four weeks ago, I took a spectacularly ungraceful fall — the kind that would have earned me a solid “3 out of 10” from the judges, but apparently a “5 out of 5” from the rib‑breaking committee. Yes, five ribs. I don’t do anything halfway.

To make things more exciting, the ER staff initially suggested I might also have a spine fracture. So, there I was, alone in the emergency room, clutching my phone like it was a lifeline to my oldest son, while the medical team spoke in tones usually reserved for cliffhangers on medical dramas. Oddly enough, I stayed calm. Concerned, sure — but also quietly convinced that my situation wasn’t nearly as dire as they were making it sound. (Spoiler alert: I was right.)

Now I’m heading into week four of recovery, and I am healing — slowly, stubbornly, and with the kind of determination usually reserved for people assembling IKEA furniture without instructions.

Broken ribs, I’ve learned, are treated with the “good luck, don’t sneeze” method. No taping, no wrapping, no dramatic medical gear. Just body mechanics: no bending, no lifting, and moving as if I’m balancing a priceless vase on my torso. Tylenol, lidocaine patches, and ice have been my loyal companions. Sitting too long? Absolutely not. Leaning on my left side? Sometimes yes, sometimes no — my ribs like to keep me guessing.

So, I adapt. That’s the secret to meeting life’s challenges: micro‑shifts, emotional recalibrations, and brave little choices that help me stay at my best. Adapting isn’t about “getting over” anything — it’s about forging ahead with intention, humor, and a dash of stubbornness.

I’ve experienced losses in my life, and each one has nudged my identity into a new shape. In the last twelve months especially, loss has changed my direction. I’m still Karen — but I’m Karen who has learned to pivot, to evolve, and to keep moving even when the path feels unfamiliar.

Loss is simply the state of no longer having something or someone you once had. It shows up in all forms:

A job.
A routine.
A sense of security.
A person you love.
A memory, a sound, a movement your body used to make without complaint.

Loss is the ache of remembering what was, paired with the assumption that nothing will ever be the same. But here’s the twist: we get to soften that impact. We get to reshape our priorities, adjust our expectations, and lighten the emotional load that tries to settle in our bones.

Loss rearranges our identity, yes — but it also hands us the opportunity to adapt. To alter relationships. To redefine what matters. To choose how we carry what’s missing.

Loss is the price of attachment, the cost of love. If something mattered, you will grieve. But you can also move forward — not by forgetting, but by honoring the significance of what was and allowing that love to guide you into what comes next.

I am not the same person I was four weeks ago. My injury forced me to pivot, and in that slow, meticulous pivoting, I’ve begun evolving into my next phase. I’m doing my best to live fully — to honor the opportunity that healing has provided, and to laugh a little along the way, even if laughing still hurts.

Please join me on my journey an share yours with me…#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 82 – Finding Myself

You may not like what I’m about to say, but the truth is this: becoming a widow or widower is an unexpected opportunity to finally find ourselves.

As children, we’re shaped by our parents, our communities, and the expectations placed on us long before we understand who we are. Even our free will is influenced by the roles we’re handed. Some of us try to express ourselves freely, but most of us carry the weight of other people’s hopes and judgments into our tomorrows.

Growing up, I knew I wanted to fall in love with the man of my dreams, build a family, and feel successful. I never created a real plan, and I struggled to reach the life I imagined. Even when I was happy, even when I felt content, something inside me always felt unfinished.

In college — the first round — I was more determined to fall in love than to earn a degree. I created obstacles without realizing it because I didn’t yet know myself. I followed a path I believed I had to take, and even though it was full of potholes, I kept going.

I don’t regret marrying young, and I don’t regret my first marriage ending. With hindsight, I see it wasn’t a mistake — it was a step toward discovering who I was meant to become.

The 44 years Rich and I shared were wonderful, even in the chaos. But even then, I was rarely fully myself. I believed I had to be more of a wife, mother, friend, and business partner than an individual. I kept adapting to what others needed or expected, losing pieces of myself along the way.

In 2013/14, I reached a breaking point. Some might call it a nervous breakdown. Yes, I was depressed, but I wasn’t always unhappy or out of control. I was functioning — but with a constant internal ache. When I finally spoke up and told Richard, Alex, and my mother how lost I felt, Alex understood immediately. Rich didn’t fully grasp it, but he listened and supported me. My mother, in her 90th year, couldn’t accept that her daughter was suffering.

Thankfully, I was strong enough to seek treatment and commit to it. I paid attention to what helped and what didn’t. I changed doctors and therapists until I found what I needed. I wasn’t looking for a quick fix or empty reassurance — I wanted to understand how I had reached that intersection in my life.

Richard and Alex were essential to my healing. Rich and I knew that facing my demons might jeopardize our relationship, but we chose to move forward together. We lowered expectations, stayed honest, and supported each other. I believe my mental health journey helped Alex grow, mature, and deepen the bond between us — something profoundly important for both of us.

For more than twelve years, I’ve been growing into myself. I completed my advanced degree and then suddenly found myself unemployed, unsure how I would survive. It wasn’t just the loss of income — I had tied my identity to my career for eight years. And ironically, that career was the very thing that brought me to my knees.

If not for Rich and Alex, I don’t know how I would have survived Rich’s death this year. They gave me the space and support to become the woman I needed to be — the woman who could start a podcast business, write blogs, and turn her passion into life coaching.

This morning, before dawn, I lay awake thinking about what it truly means to be a widow or widower. My answer for anyone who is struggling is simple: start by letting go of the label. The only label we should carry is our name. And if you don’t like your name, you can change it.

As Karen — or Kiki — I get to be myself. I get to choose what matters and what doesn’t. I get to live as the person I’ve spent a lifetime trying to uncover.

Choose to be the best version of yourself…join my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 82 – Finding Myself

You may not like what I’m about to say, but the truth is this: becoming a widow or widower is an unexpected opportunity to finally find ourselves.

I don’t regret marrying young, and I don’t regret my first marriage ending. With hindsight, I see it wasn’t a mistake — it was a step toward discovering who I was meant to become.

As Karen — or Kiki — I get to be myself. I get to choose what matters and what doesn’t. I get to live as the person I’ve spent a lifetime trying to uncover.

Choose to be the best version of yourself…join my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

81 Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 82 – Why Don’t We Listen

Why Don’t We Listen?

We are living through a significant mental health crisis,
and too often we fail to listen
when individuals ask for help.
In my work as a Life Coach,
I see this every day.
While I am not medically
trained and do not provide
therapy, when someone
reaches out in distress, I
do my best to guide
them toward appropriate physical, mental,
or emotional support. Unfortunately, the services people need
most are becoming increasingly difficult
to access.

Family
members and friends
may recognize that someone is
struggling yet choose not
to intervene—sometimes out of fear,
uncertainty, or a belief that
they cannot take on the responsibility. This hesitation leaves vulnerable
individuals without the
support they urgently
require.

Our communities need a stronger, more responsive system—one that begins with early intervention. Families should not have to jeopardize their own safety while trying to secure care for a loved one. We see these situations reported on the news every day, and they are becoming more common.

Yesterday, I read a post from a family
whose son, severely affected and on the spectrum, experiences violent episodes
that are now physically harming those around him. They have been waiting years
for services, relying on temporary solutions that are no longer effective as he
grows bigger and stronger. This is not the fault of the child or the parents.
It is the result of a system that is unprepared and under-resourced.

This family’s story is just one example of the escalating violence and crisis situations emerging across our communities. Beyond developmental challenges, many neurotypical individuals are also facing emotional instability, often intensified by the misuse of social media. These issues require proper recognition and meaningful support.

We also see the consequences of untreated
post‑partum depression in the news—cases where symptoms were overlooked or
minimized until tragedy occurred. Loved ones may turn away, unable or unwilling
to believe that a new mother could be in such severe psychological distress.

Mental health challenges are real, complex, and often invisible until they reach a breaking point. We must do better—individually, collectively, and systemically—to ensure people receive the care, compassion, and intervention they need long before crisis becomes catastrophe.

I also came across
a post from someone attending
a grief program. The facilitator—a
trained coach, not
a therapist—noticed several red flags
when one participant shared their
story. The coach attempted to
speak privately with the individual
to offer guidance and suggest
more direct support, but the person declined
the help. Wanting to ensure
the individual’s safety, the coach
contacted local authorities
out of concern that the
person might harm themselves.

When authorities approached
the individual, panic set in. They reacted
impulsively, were taken
into custody, and experienced additional
emotional trauma. The
situation escalated their
distress rather than
alleviating it.

Based on what I read, I understand why the coach reached out for help. If someone shares thoughts that suggest potential harm to themselves or others, it is reasonable—and responsible—to alert the proper authorities. Whether a calmer, non‑threatening conversation could have prevented the escalation is impossible to judge from the outside; we were not present, and we do not know the full context.

What we can take from this is the need for better listening skills and more open‑ended conversations. People need space to express what is real for them without fear of judgment or dismissal. Every one of us carries a story, and when we acknowledge each other with compassion and curiosity, we create the conditions for healing.

Do not be afraid to ask for help, and guidance, and when approached Listen DO NOT Judge!

Follow my journey at #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 80 Holiday Weekend

Holiday weekends never really shaped the rhythm of my adult life with Rich. For us, Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays simply folded into the flow of ordinary workdays. It was our cadence—two people moving through life with independent schedules, commitments, and routines. So, when Labor Day rolls around, it feels less like a milestone and more like another quiet weekend.

For many families, this holiday marks the final burst of summer before school-year chaos begins. For empty nesters, it might be a chance to slip away for a quick trip. And for others—those living solo, those rebuilding, those learning to inhabit their own company—it becomes an invitation to simply be present.

Living in the moment, for me, isn’t about filling the calendar. It’s about honoring space—my own and others’. I’m deeply aware of not intruding on people whose time is shaped by partners, children, or family routines. I understand it, and I’m grateful for the years Rich and I devoted to each other, even the uneventful ones that now feel tender in hindsight.

This weekend is another step in doing more for myself as I continue healing from my broken ribs. And I’m genuinely excited to report a small victory: I can vacuum again. My self‑propelling vacuum is lightweight, manageable, and—bless it—does most of the work. At 3½ weeks post‑injury, I’m able to do more, even as I stay mindful that lifting and twisting are still off‑limits. Vacuuming may sound mundane to some, but for this clean‑loving soul, it’s a moment of joy. A reminder that independence returns in small, satisfying ways.

As an independent woman, I’m learning to quiet the whispers—both internal and external—and accept that each of us moves forward in our own way. Family, friends, and even strangers may try to weigh in on how we “should” be stepping into our new lives, but their opinions don’t grant them permission to judge us.

This morning, I read a post in the Widows and Widowers group from a man who openly shared that he needs a partner. He described past relationships—some healthy, some harmful—and still expressed that connection is essential for him to feel whole. His vulnerability was honest, and yet many of the responses questioned his choices and his lifestyle. It disappointed me. I wanted to shout, It’s his life. His needs. His personality. Let him be who he is. If he finds comfort and completeness with a woman beside him, what is wrong with that?

Some people on this journey are searching for a partner to help them feel complete again. Others, like me, are seeking friendship—people to share meaningful time with while still honoring the space we need. I was a devoted partner to my husband, and I willingly carried the domestic responsibilities passed down from my mother. I loved caring for Rich—most of the time—but I have no desire to step back into that role for anyone else.

I’m choosing a different kind of companionship now: connection without obligation, presence without pressure, friendship without the expectation of filling a role I’ve already fulfilled with love.

As I make my choices, I remind myself—and you—that life is complicated. It’s normal to feel sad and hopeful at the same time. Mixed emotions aren’t a flaw; they’re part of being human. We can try to understand our feelings and let them guide us gently, or we can ignore them and slip into patterns that create chaos.

Turning the chaos in life into your own utopia isn’t about erasing the mess. It’s about reshaping how we move through it. Utopia becomes less of a perfect destination and more of a personal practice—choosing calm over reaction, clarity over noise, and meaning over distraction. When we learn to work with the chaos instead of fighting it, we begin to build a life that feels aligned, spacious, and uniquely ours.

Please join me in my journey, you need not walk alone #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 79 – Trying to be OK

All we can truly ask of ourselves is to try to be OK. We aren’t immune to life, and the world around us has a way of shifting our perspective in an instant. One moment we feel content, hopeful, even eager to chase the sunshine hiding behind the clouds — and in the next, sadness, confusion, or overwhelm can settle over us like a sudden storm.

That is life and grief working together, a dynamic duo of emotions that can shake us to our core. Yet even in those moments, we still hold the ability to choose how we respond to the emotional earthquake rumbling inside us.

Think about how many times you’ve felt physically drained, emotionally spent, mentally exhausted — convinced it was the worst you’ve ever felt. And still, how many times have you found your way out of that downward spiral, resurfacing for air in a safer, calmer space?

The truth is, we live in a constant rhythm of ups and downs, and sometimes those lows feel like the end of the world. Many of us have whispered things like “I wish I were dead,” “Life doesn’t feel worthwhile,” or “Why me?” Not because we truly meant them, but because we were desperate for relief, clarity, or simply a way to express the depth of our pain. I know I’ve said those things myself.

As a child, my parents often called me Sarah Bernhardt — the dramatic French actress known for her emotional intensity. I wasn’t a performer, but my feelings were big, loud, and often led me into dark, negative thinking. When I made those dramatic statements, I wasn’t wishing harm on myself; I was trying to communicate how unhappy I felt in that moment. And those moments, more often than not, passed quietly, leaving me with the realization that I had more control over my emotions than I believed. I just needed to learn how to use that power.

Lately, I haven’t been sleeping well. I know it’s because I’ve allowed myself to binge‑watch shows that have nothing to do with my life. The noise, the storylines — they’ve been a distraction from my sadness, my reality, my healing. But last night, it dawned on me: I have control over the remote. All I had to do was click it off.

So, at 1:30 a.m., I took that control. I turned off the TV. It took a while to fall asleep, but eventually my eyes closed, and I drifted into a gentle state of relaxation. When I woke just before 6 a.m., I noticed something remarkable — I felt calm. Calmer than I’ve felt in years. Even though I didn’t get much sleep, choosing to take control in that small moment allowed my body and mind to begin repairing themselves.

It’s the baby steps that guide us toward living our best lives. I am no longer Sarah Bernhardt. I am choosing to be mindful of my needs. Mindfulness isn’t selfish; it’s clarity.

In this journal entry, I wrote that I am trying to be OK. Trying to be OK means I’m working hard to hold myself together even when I’m not entirely fine. It’s the quiet, internal effort to function, to appear steady, to keep moving — even when something inside me feels tender or unsettled.

I can move through life even when my heart is carrying a heavy weight.
I choose not to collapse; I choose the tools that help me keep my routines.
I give myself permission to heal in my own time, without unnecessary drama.
I honor myself even when I feel fragile or tempted to give up.
I navigate the uncomfortable parts of this journey so I can eventually reach my comfort zone.

Trying to be OK is not a failure. Trying is the first step toward living my best life.

Follow my journey and share yours at #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Window Part 78 – Share Your Story

Whether you are newly widowed or someone who has been walking this road for weeks, months, or even years, each of us carries a story that can help another person navigate this journey. None of us chose this path — it was chosen for us — and now we hold a responsibility to ourselves, our families, our friends, and to one another to live our best lives in honor of the person we’ve been separated from.

I don’t use the word lost, because I did not lose my husband. Yes, he is no longer here in the physical sense, but he remains with me in every way that matters. The bond we built over nearly 42 years of marriage — 44 years together — continues to shape my days. The moments we shared linger, offering comfort and filling my memory bank with joy.

As I forge this new path, I walk it alongside many of you. Each day, as I sit and write my blog, I speak to Richard in thought and in words. I let him know how much he still means to me and how he will continue to for all eternity.

I’ve accepted that there are parts of life I cannot control — including how others choose to live or how they interpret my healing. Some people in my circle may not understand my need to be OK. Being OK doesn’t mean I’m never sad; it means I refuse to live inside the sadness. Rich was a positive force in our relationship. He teased me, made me smile, and turned my smiles into giggles. I miss his banter, but I allow myself to remember those moments, and sometimes I find myself giggling even now.

If you have a story to share, or words that might help another widow or widower find peace along this path, I would love to connect. I invite you to be a guest on my podcast, Don’t Call Me a Widow — My Name Is Karen.

You can reach me at kh.yesican1@gmail.com.

“What we have once enjoyed deeply we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.”

— Helen Keller

Don ‘t Call Me A Widow – Part 77 – How Can it be September Already?

I can hardly believe summer is already slipping away. With this week’s heat wave pushing temperatures close to 100 degrees, it feels like summer is still in full force. And while I enjoy warm weather, 100 degrees is a bit more heat than I care for. Yet I know that in a few weeks, when the average temperature hovers around 50, I’ll probably find myself wishing for the very heat I’m complaining about now.

It’s funny how often we want life to be different than it is. Human nature seems wired to look past the present moment and reach for something else — something better, something easier, something more comfortable. Why do we do that?

Maybe it’s because we’re restless, imaginative, and deeply aware of possibility. Sometimes I see this as a flaw, wishing away what I have while longing for something else. But if wishes become dreams, they shift our perspective. They help us imagine a future that feels gentler or more aligned.

There’s nothing wrong with envisioning a better version of our lives, especially when we’re trying to ease discomfort or grow into our best selves. We may never fully reach that “best,” but we can keep moving toward it.

The truth is that we spend more time evaluating our lives than experiencing them. We get caught in the whys and what‑ifs. When we feel stagnant, we blame ourselves or our surroundings for the stuckness. The more blame we pile on, the harder it becomes to climb out of that deep, dark hole.

And when pain — physical or emotional — grows heavy, it distracts us, confuses us, and convinces us it’s protecting us. In reality, it often keeps us from evolving into the next version of who we’re meant to be.

Authenticity is what opens the door to growth. When we allow ourselves to be real — truly real — we naturally evolve. We form new habits, build new relationships, and rethink our values and purpose.

Life will always feel mysterious, unpredictable, or out of control at times. It’s OK to pause. It’s OK to seek relief, find clarity, and simply be who you are in this moment.

Giving yourself permission to live isn’t running away from anything. It isn’t forgetting your past. Your yesterdays will always be part of you — but you get to decide how they shape your tomorrows.

No one need be alone or lonely – follow my journey and share yours. #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow #76 – It’s About Mindset

As August comes to an end and summer quietly prepares to hand itself over to fall, I can feel a shift in my emotional landscape. When Rich died in January, I held onto the promise of spring — the idea that warmer days and brighter skies might help me blossom through the loss. Spring has always offered me clarity, a softening of the grey that winter presses upon me. January has never been my season, and I’ve long depended on the sunshine of spring and summer to lift my spirit.

Fall, of course, has its beauty — the colors, the crispness, the way Mother Nature paints the world in warmth before the cold arrives. But woven into that beauty is a familiar sadness, a quiet reminder that winter is approaching. One of the best parts of winter was having Rich beside me. We could curl up together on the couch or in bed, sharing warmth and safety. As this new season approaches, I’m reminded that I won’t have that comfort in the same way.

Some days I feel “off,” as if life is tilted in a way that feels wrong. But I remind myself: life may not look the way we planned it, yet what we had was real — and I still carry it. No one can take away the love Rich gave me or the kindness he shared. His impact is profound, and it continues to guide me into my tomorrows.

Mindset is a choice; one I’ve only recently begun to practice. For so long, I rushed through life, letting a passing sadness — whether it had a reason or not — darken my day. I allowed small moments to become monumental.

So, what changed? I began noticing how my moods affected the people around me. When I was having a difficult moment, I unintentionally created difficult moments for others. My emotions became contagious, creating a ripple effect I didn’t intend. I didn’t like the version of myself I saw, nor the chaos my pain created.

Seeking Mindfulness – Mindfulness became a way to turn inward — to focus on my thoughts, my inner experiences, and the emotional baggage I’d been carrying. I began acknowledging my flaws and smoothing out the wrinkles that caused me emotional hurt. This path of awareness has given me permission to stop judging myself and others. Thinking more clearly allows me to live more authentically.

How Mindfulness Helps Me Face My Grief – Grief often pulls us into the future, reminding us of the holidays, birthdays, and vacations that will feel different — and lonely. Mindfulness brings us back to the present moment, where we can imagine and create ways to feel less lonely and less sad.

It teaches us to feel what is happening now, instead of reaching too far ahead. When we leap into the future, we often create negative self-talk that destroys our peace.

Mindfulness allows us to feel the sadness, the hurt, the laughter, and even the physical heaviness — while giving us tools to reduce their intensity. Reduction is not forgetting; it’s finding a more comfortable way to remember.

It’s also important to understand something called “secondary grief,” the emotional reactions that come from how we judge or interpret our grief. And in that space, we are allowed:

to feel what we feel
to have a bad day
to cry and laugh at the same time
to feel self-pity briefly, then let it go
to mourn, grieve, and live in ways that honor our authenticity

Authenticity – Authenticity is showing up as your real self. Many of us aren’t fully authentic in marriage because we pour our energy into making someone else happy, often overlooking our own needs. When a partner dies, we may continue trying to “make them happy,” carrying emotional burdens that keep us from rediscovering our own joy. True mindfulness reminds us that our emotional health matters — that we deserve happiness, too.

Choosing to be yourself, authentically, is a gift you give to yourself and to other survivors. Life is meant to be lived, and when we live it mindfully, we contribute to our community with a positive, energetic light.

You need not walk this path alone – Join me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t’ Call Me a Widow Part 75 It’s OK

In life, we plan for the future. We prepare for careers, retirement, family milestones — but the one future we rarely plan for is becoming a widow or widower. In a way, that’s not entirely true. Our wedding vows include the words “Until death do us part,” yet most of us gloss over that line, quietly believing it will never apply to us.

Some of us are planners. We buy life insurance, complete living wills, and organize documents meant to protect us later. But many people delay these tasks, telling themselves they can wait. Sometimes, waiting becomes too late.

Unlike divorce or separation, death is traumatic. No one is ever ready for the person they love to stop breathing, stop talking, stop sharing life. As survivors, we often wrestle with guilt — wondering if we did enough, said enough, loved enough. We may even feel flashes of anger toward the partner who died, as if they had a choice in the matter.

When I took my husband to the ER, he didn’t show any sign that he was gravely ill. He thought it was the flu or a sinus infection. There was no hint of COVID, pneumonia, or the weakened heart that would fail him. I witnessed his cardiac arrest, and that image has stayed with me — a reminder that some moments are simply beyond our control.

What was in our control, and remains in mine, was preparing our paperwork long before either of us became ill.

We scrimped for years to make sure life insurance was in place.
We had the hard conversations about how each of us might handle this phase of life. Rich always joked he’d need a younger girlfriend because he couldn’t do life alone — I laughed, knowing he wasn’t one to be without companionship.
I allowed myself to be vulnerable and seek comfort from others who understand this journey.
I created new circles and gave myself permission to live as fully as I can.
I stopped setting expectations for how others should interact with my grief.

“Being a widow is like folding a fitted sheet. No one really knows how.” — Unknown

Every day, I reflect on the love, and companionship Rich gave me. Before meeting him, I wondered if I’d ever find someone to share my life with. I didn’t date much, my first marriage ended in divorce, and my confidence was low. When Rich came into my life, he felt like my Prince Charming — not because he fit the fairy‑tale image, but because he fit me. The rest became our history.

Our marriage wasn’t perfect — no marriage is. We had ups and downs, raised questions, and navigated challenges. But over nearly 42 years, we grew stronger and more bonded. Rich loved to answer the question “How long have you been married?” by giving the exact number of days. On the day he died, he would have said, “15,167 days — not counting tomorrow.” Seven days shy of our 42nd anniversary.

What keeps me moving into this new chapter is the love and energy we built together. I cannot let sadness or loneliness hollow me out. I accept that tears will come, that grief will rise, but I also know joy still exists in the tomorrows I’m choosing — tomorrows Rich would want for me.

I am choosing to live, just as he would have if he had survived me. We owe it to ourselves, our families, and our communities to become the best version of who we can be.

None of us are immune to grief. We will experience it in different ways, again and again throughout life. But we get to choose how we meet it.

Grief is the anguish that follows significant loss — not only of people, but of identity, stability, or dreams.
Grief is a natural human response, our attempt to reconcile sadness, anger, fear, numbness, longing, and confusion.
Grief clouds our thinking, disrupts concentration, and creates intrusive thoughts and physical pain.
Grief can separate us socially from those who haven’t lived our experience.
Grief can shake our spiritual foundations and stir questions we never expected to ask.

Grief hurts — but healing is possible when we choose it.

We can address physical and emotional distress through medical care, therapy, counseling, or coaching.
We can soothe separation anxiety by communicating with others and with ourselves — honest self‑talk can be powerful.
We can learn to stop obsessing over the past and instead carry its positivity into our future.
We can learn from others on this journey, easing our apprehensions. We are not forgetting — we are adjusting our course.

Grief doesn’t disappear. It becomes something we carry, and over time, it grows lighter. It may even help us become more emotionally whole.

No one needs to walk this path alone. I’m here, walking mine — and you’re welcome to walk alongside me.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

74 Don’t Call me a Widow – Part 74 F U!

I’m feeling blue today — there’s really no better way to describe it. It’s not just my own emotions; it’s the weight of what I’m reading and hearing from others. Widows and widowers sharing their struggles, friends posting about real‑life crises that make me want to run away and scream. It’s a lot to absorb.

This morning I learned that a friend had a heart attack and didn’t even know it until her follow‑up appointment. Her life has already been filled with complications, and now she’s facing yet another challenge. As her friend, I wish I could do more, but I’m still recuperating myself. All I can offer right now is empathy and a listening ear.

Another friend is waiting for medical test results — I don’t know the details, but I know she’s bracing for yet another health concern. And please, if you’re reading this, don’t chalk it up to “our age.” These things aren’t just age-related; they’re life-related.

And just as I’m writing this, a client reached out. They went to the ER thinking they had an upper respiratory infection and were diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. Stage 4. How does anyone process news like that?

Despite all of this, I’m still preaching positivity to myself and trying to appreciate the small things. Today, even with discomfort, I managed to change my bedding without bending and freshened up my room. I even used my Swiffer to mop the bathroom floor. If you know me, you know how important it is for my environment to feel clean and orderly — and those two tasks have been waiting for my attention.

Between rest and breathing exercises, I also updated the website and made sure all the “Don’t Call Me a Widow” blogs were posted. I skipped Mahjong today; I couldn’t sit in one position long enough, and I knew being in a group while hurting would be too much. So, until September 19th, I guess I’m Mahj‑less — if that’s even a word.

Back to this blue feeling. I want to thank a dear childhood friend who has been texting with me while I write. My friend Gary — who happens to be a doctor — suggested I try medical‑grade magnets to help with the pain. I ordered them, and Amazon will deliver them tomorrow. Our back‑and‑forth lifted my mood, especially hearing that he’s doing well after cataract surgery and a routine colonoscopy. Good news really does make the sun shine a little brighter.

And as Annie sings, “The sun will come out tomorrow…” It will. And with it, the sadness and the blue tint I started this blog with will fade, even if just a little.

Please join me on my journey at #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 73 Oy Vay!

When you have an accident and you’re told healing will take 6–12 weeks, it’s easy to believe you’re “all better” the moment Tylenol makes the pain tolerable. But tolerable is not healed, and today my body reminded me of that truth. What I’m feeling is more than discomfort — it’s my body insisting I slow down again.

I’ve been careful, but over the last couple of days my version of “slow” crept into a faster rhythm, and my body is yelling at me. I’m listening. Movement was encouraged, yes, but movement within limits. When I pushed past those limits, discomfort shifted into pain — temporary, but real.

Yesterday’s doctor appointment was my first sign. The parking lot was full, so I had to walk a distance. By the time I reached the waiting room, I couldn’t wait to sit, yet even sitting offered no comfortable place to land. Afterward, I stopped at the grocery store for a few items, thinking the extra walking would be good for me. It wasn’t. It was simply too much too soon, and now I’m adjusting.

It’s not easy when the mind says “just do it” but the body isn’t in sync with the rhythm of movement. This mismatch is its own form of grief — the grief of physical change, the grief of limitation, the grief of realizing we must evolve into a new phase whether we want to or not.

I may not feel 76 emotionally, but my bones and muscles remind me of the reality. To stay healthy, I must pivot differently. The loss of what I could do yesterday or last year is not a failure — it’s simply part of living. I am still breathing, still moving forward.

Recently I listened to a rabbi speak about blessings and curses. Her words struck me deeply: they exist side by side, and we have the choice to see them for what they truly are. We don’t deny that painful things happen, but we can choose to learn from them and cultivate those lessons into blessings. When we look at life through a lens that seeks meaning rather than misery, grief softens and blessings emerge.

I will always carry sadness that Rich died before either of us was ready. Yet even within that sadness, I can smile, laugh, and hold close the love that lives in my heart and soul. Rich is woven into me; he is not lost, and neither am I.

Just as Rich is no longer physically here, I have lost certain physical abilities through aging and experience. But I am learning not to let those losses diminish who I am or the life still ahead of me. Adjusting is its own blessing.

Turning curses into blessings is a personal choice. I choose to move through life reflectively and intentionally, searching for meaning. I believe adversity can be reshaped into strength. It’s not about perfection — it’s about finding the answers that calm both body and spirit.

A curse is simply an experience that hurts, scares, or limits us. When we see it clearly, we reduce its power. My father taught me to stop asking “Why me?” and instead ask, “What can I learn from this?” Every curse, every mistake, every hardship carries the possibility of clarity, healing, and inner strength. We discover what we need, and we pivot toward it.

On Wednesday (8/26), I entered the eighth month of my current grief journey. But grief is never singular. In September 2025, I began another journey with the sudden loss of my brother. And throughout my 76 years, grief has appeared in many forms. Each loss felt like the worst moment imaginable, yet without those experiences, I would not have had the privilege of loving so many — grandparents, parents, siblings, cousins, friends, and even those who touched my life from a distance.

We are not taught how to grieve. Cultures may offer traditions, but ultimately each of us must find our own way, honoring ourselves as we honor those who came before us.

Please follow me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 72 I Want You!

I’ve written 72 posts under Don’t Call Me a Widow and recorded 8 podcast episodes so far. If you haven’t listened yet, here’s the playlist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fl3chWr6ObY&list=PLSdL23sBfggnxsmdQqGo9RkAGXW8nVswy

Now it’s time to take this to the next level — and I want YOU with me.

Together, we can create a space where widows and widowers feel supported, understood, and seen. A space where we stop judging ourselves and stop absorbing the judgments of others. Because let’s be honest: sometimes we are our own harshest critics, believing things that aren’t true and slowing our own healing.

The truth is that we will never be “healed” in the way people imagine. We will always feel moments of sadness, waves of memory, and emotional tremors. But we can learn to face those moments with less pain — if we choose to change, grow, and stay awake to our own lives.

Life itself is mysterious. Scientists, philosophers, and spiritual teachers offer theories, but there is still so much we don’t understand. We keep searching for answers that might lead us toward some version of utopia. And yet, if we’re honest, utopia — perfect harmony — doesn’t exist. Even the biblical story of Adam and Eve reminds us that perfection can be disrupted in a single moment. Imperfection will always find its way in, and when it does, our work is to mend what has unraveled.

We are one tiny speck in a universe of at least 200 billion galaxies. And within that vast mystery, we experience both the wonder of love and the ache of losing it.

But here’s the part people misunderstand: Widows and widowers have not lost love. We still carry the emotional essence of what we had — and what we still have.

The love between Rich and me will never again be physical, but his energy is woven through my days. I feel his kindness in my memories, his touch in my thoughts, his presence in the photographs around my home. And yes, there are moments when I believe he sends me signs. I hold them close and smile, knowing I am not walking alone.

Now I want to take my energy — and yours — and build something meaningful. We each have a story. We each walk this path differently. But when we share our experiences, we extend a hand to someone who has just joined this club — a club none of us wanted, but one that has introduced us to extraordinary people walking beside us.

When we speak from the heart, we often find the light we thought had gone out. Sharing doesn’t erase grief; it simply gives it room to breathe so life can continue to blossom around it.

We don’t have all the answers. Physics can explain how the universe works, but not why it exists. The question “Why is there something instead of nothing?” is one more mystery to ponder.

And when someone we love dies — someone who was the center of our world — we often question our own worth. We ask, “Why me?” or “Why am I still here?” Those questions are part of the mystery too. But as long as we are here, we have an obligation to the people we love — and to ourselves — to live.

We may not live in utopia, but we don’t have to live in dystopia either. Life is not an either-or. We can choose to participate, to exist, to endure our emotions, and to find a new kind of calm that allows happiness to return in a different form.

For me, choosing life looks like this:

Choosing life means noticing the morning light.

Feeling my breath.
Testing the water temperature and actually noticing whether it’s too hot or too cold.

Choosing life means movement.

Even slow movement creates momentum.
Each step brings a new idea, a new possibility.

Choosing life means:

Connection
Creativity
Service — to myself and to others
Curiosity
Healing

I choose:

To get out of bed
To care for myself — bathing, dressing, and eat well
To show up for others, because we never know what someone else is carrying
To let myself be seen instead of hiding behind grief
To step forward, even if I occasionally step back
To allow the future to ebb and flow

This is my story
This is my journey

Are you ready to join me?

Looking for podcasts guests at newclevelandradio@gmail.com

Follow my journey at #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 71 I’m Getting Out Today!

After another restless night, I’m actually excited this morning — excited for a long, hot shower to ease the tension in my body and excited to get dressed and leave the house. Thanks to Joan, who kindly offered to drive me to an appointment, today feels like a small but meaningful step back into the world.

If you’ve been following my series, you already know I’ve been struggling with my current hearing aids. Today I’m heading to Costco to explore their hearing aid program, which is not only affordable but consistently rated as reliable. After that, Joan and I will meet up with our mutual friend Donna for a girls’ lunch.

Honestly, I feel like a kid about to walk into a candy store — eyes wide, heart buzzing. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been out among people, and the anticipation is exhilarating.

Sometimes the simplest things — a shower, an errand, a lunch with friends — can turn lonely days into moments of pure joy.

I’ve learned a great deal about myself over these past two weeks. For most of my life, people told me I was a strong person, and I never truly believed them. Instead, I carried an inner sense of isolation — a feeling that others had let me down. The strength they saw in me felt more like a weight I was forced to shoulder, and I grew more independent without ever fully understanding the layers of emotion beneath it. I even resented people, including Rich, for insisting I was strong when all I wanted was for someone else to be the strong one for me.

The truth is, Rich and so many others have always been there for me. I was simply too focused on what I thought I had to manage, too wrapped up in responsibility, to notice the support surrounding me. This accident has shown me something I needed to see I am not alone, even in the moments when I’m physically sitting by myself in my home or in a hospital room.

But two weeks ago, life handed me a lesson I could no longer ignore. Rich — and everyone who believed in me — were right. I do have the strength to be OK.

If I could offer one gift today, it would be the ability to look beyond your own limits and reach out to someone. Even when you’re convinced you have no one, there is always someone. Connection exists — sometimes in places we haven’t thought to look, sometimes in people we haven’t yet allowed ourselves to trust.

988 is the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline – you may not be suicidal, but you may be in Crisis – call for help. (you can text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by texting 988, or text the Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741741. Both options are free, confidential, available 24/7, and staffed by people ready to listen even if you just need to vent or talk through a rough moment.)

If you are a senior 866-243-5678 here in Ohio you can contact the Department of Aging and be connected to local groups that may assist you.

Here is something called Friendship Line – 7 days a week at 1-800-971-0016. Aging at 415-750-4111. 24-Hour Hotline/Warmline 1-800-971-0016.

When you reach out to friends or family, begin with openness and honesty. When we feel deeply alone, it’s easy for our words to come out sounding hurt or accusatory, even when what we truly want is empathy and understanding. Starting the conversation with clarity and gentleness gives others a chance to meet us where we are.

It also helps to remember that everyone has limitations. A “no” doesn’t always mean someone doesn’t care — sometimes it simply means they can’t offer what we’re asking for in that moment. Accepting that truth can soften disappointment and keep the door open for connection.

And sometimes, without realizing it, we slip into the role of the victim. Others may sense it even when we don’t. That’s when reaching out to supportive professionals — your medical provider, clergy, or community organizations — can make a real difference. Keep looking. Support is out there, and you will find it.

If you’re reading this, it means you’re already seeking connection through social media or the internet. There are resources, communities, and people ready to meet you. You have the power to turn today into the beginning of a better tomorrow.

Join me on my journey (and yours) #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Part 70 Missing In action

Don’t Call me a Widow – Part 69 This day 55 years ago

Who could have imagined that the young bride I was 55 years ago would travel such a winding road — through joy, detours, and even divorce — to arrive at the woman I am today.

For a long time, I blamed my first husband for the struggles that led to our divorce. But time has a way of softening edges and widening perspective. As I’ve grown, learned, and allowed myself to forgive — including forgiving myself — I see that chapter differently now. I’m grateful for what it taught me, for the education it gave me in resilience, and for the healing that followed.

I also believe those experiences were necessary for me to become the woman I am. For much of my early life, I wasn’t confident in my choices. I listened to everyone else’s voices before my own. Meeting Richard changed that. Loving him helped me learn to trust my instincts, to rebel a little, and to choose based on my own heart rather than others’ expectations.

Perhaps that’s why, almost seven months into widowhood — a word I still resist — I am coping as well as I am. I still see myself as Rich’s wife, partner, and best friend. I still seek his quiet guidance as I step into my future. I don’t know how many steps I have left, but if my son is right, I may have another twenty years to keep walking.

Even with my recent accident and broken ribs, today feels brighter than yesterday, and tomorrow brighter still. I’ve been on my own this past week, managing what needs to be managed, even returning to the shower with new safety measures in place. This coming week brings medical appointments and social engagements, and I’m genuinely excited to take those next steps. My independence may be temporarily compromised, but I’m learning how to navigate around it.

At 21, I was naïve and vulnerable, marrying the man I believed was my dream. Now, at 76, I understand how dreams evolve as we evolve. I am not the same woman I was then, and he is not the same man. Today, I see him as a gift — someone who gave me our wonderful son and, indirectly, the path that led me to my true love. I’m proud of the life he has built with his wife of 42 years and their children.

What I hope you take from this is that grief comes in many forms. It is not one‑dimensional. Grief is the natural response to loss — any loss. It can be the loss of a person, of health, of identity, of stability, of youth. When grief arrives, we each choose how we move through it. Some seek professional help. Some turn inward. Some do nothing and sink deeper. It is not for others to tell us how to grieve, only to support us as we do. Grief never disappears, but it does change.

For a while, I wondered if something was wrong with me. I haven’t cried or raged. I’ve simply kept walking forward — perhaps too quickly at first. I still think I’m in a bit of shock, and maybe this quiet forward motion is my way of coping.

What many don’t know is that 2025 was a year of upheaval for our family. Three days before Christmas 2024, Rich lost his full‑time IT job — work he enjoyed, work that gave him purpose. Losing it just before his 74th birthday was devastating. Then, on Christmas Eve, I slipped in our hallway and broke my shoulder, requiring surgery and weeks of recovery.

Meanwhile, Alex was searching for a more secure job and eventually made a move that, while good for him, was difficult for us during that period. Just as he settled in, Rich was offered a work assignment in Columbus — two hours away — adding financial strain we weren’t prepared for.

And layered on top of all this was Rich’s struggle with incontinence caused by prostate radiation. A procedure in August 2025 was meant to help but instead brought emotional distress. He tried so hard to push through, but it was clear to both Alex and me that these challenges weighed heavily on him. None of this caused his death, but it certainly affected his quality of life.

Looking back over these 55 years, I can say without hesitation that I have been loved and lucky — especially since meeting Rich 44 years ago. The last year and a half tested us, but we walked through it together. Since January, I’ve chosen to appreciate my life — past, present, and future — and to take one step forward each day.

A choice is more than a decision. It is an act of self‑direction. When I choose, I influence what happens next. I declare my intention to live.

My choices allow me to reset, to create turning points, to let go of what no longer serves me. I am not letting go of memories — they are part of me — but I am releasing the negativity that sometimes clings to them.

My choices are my responsibility and my opportunity to become who I want to be. And if I’m not sure who that is, I have the freedom to explore.

My choices are my self‑care. I am the only one who can make myself happy. Others may contribute to my joy, but I am the one who must smile, laugh, and live fully.

Join me on my journey and let’s do this together at #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 68– Sitting at my Desk

Twelve days may not sound like much, but for me — twelve days after falling in my shower, four days in the hospital, and now home recuperating from broken ribs — it feels monumental. I’m almost 100% again, short of the bones that still need time to mend, but they are healing. What remains isn’t pain so much as discomfort, and I’m learning how to move with intention, adjusting my positions with care. Today, I can finally say I am truly on the mend.

This morning I took a long, hot shower to loosen the tightness in my neck and shoulders, a tension born from the limits I’ve had to place on my movements. I even walked out to the mailbox — a small act, but a meaningful one. My TENS unit has become a welcome distraction, and I’m doing my best not to use the word pain. Pain feels too absolute, too heavy, too final. What I’m experiencing is discomfort, and discomfort is something that shifts, softens, and eventually fades.

The day I fell, I had just read a message from a dear friend who had taken a bad fall himself. Thankfully, he escaped without broken bones, though he endured his own round of tests. It’s interesting — once you reach a certain age, the medical world can make assumptions before the results even come in. But a fall does not mean we are suddenly fragile or incapable of living fully. Most falls are simply accidents: unexpected, unplanned moments that catch us off guard. My friend walked away bruised and sore; I walked away bruised with broken ribs that are now healing. Neither of us is defined by what happened.

If you’ve been following my journey, you know I handled my accident independently. I called 911, followed the hospital’s protocol, and since returning home last week, I’ve been slowly reintroducing normal activities into my days. I’m moving at a gentle pace, honoring the process so I can recover fully.

Today’s milestone is a special one: I’m sitting in my office — my happy place — writing this blog.

My life coaching experience carried me through this ordeal. From the first jolt of discomfort, I chose mindfulness over panic. If you’ve known me for years, you may recognize this as a new version of me. In the past, I might have reacted with frustration or fear, which would have only intensified everything. I might have felt abandoned because I was alone. Instead, I reached out, and I carried Rich’s energy with me, just as I do every day. I showed up for myself, and I will continue to show up.

We all have the ability to be our best, and it is equally human not to be. We must give ourselves permission to feel the physical and emotional jabs that come with life’s unexpected turns. And we must find our support system — the person or people who show up when we ask. It may not be the spouse, partner, or family member we assumed it would be, but someone will show up. The key is that we must show up for ourselves first.

Each day I write this blog; I invite you to walk alongside me. Share your journey, follow mine, and together let’s build a community rooted in kindness — one that helps us live our lives fully.

Please join me at #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 67– Another Day

Every day, someone new enters the Widow and Widowers Club — a club none of us ever wanted to join. Yet once we’re here, we discover the understanding and empathy that only another griever can offer. Some of us seek connection immediately; others arrive months or even years later. But eventually, we come together to be seen, heard, and understood for the experience we never asked for.

It’s nearly impossible to explain what grief feels like because even we don’t fully understand the emotions running wild through our bodies. The physical and mental fatigue can be overwhelming, and if we don’t acknowledge it, it can take a toll on our health.

The question we hear most often is, “When will I feel better?” The answer begins with self‑care.

Grief forces us to slow down. Our minds fog over, our eyes blur from tears and sleepless nights, and our bodies often go unfueled. These experiences are normal — but they’re also signals that it’s time to pivot toward healing.

Healing is not forgetting. It’s not loving less. It’s not leaving the past behind. Healing is choosing to use the love and energy we still carry and nurture ourselves in honor of the spouse we lost.

We start by naming our feelings: sadness, anger, numbness, confusion, relief, longing. We don’t judge what arises, and we don’t let others tell us what we should feel. This is our journey, and we choose the path.

It’s perfectly okay for emotions to shift minute to minute, day to day, week to week. With mindfulness, we begin to understand these changes and develop tools to help us navigate them. Grief doesn’t disappear — it transforms. Sometimes it arrives like a storm; other times it’s just a whisper in the wind. Feeling the pain is part of healing, and if we allow it, that pain eventually softens into comfort.

Grief drains us. It robs us of energy and, if ignored, can create illness in an otherwise healthy body. In the beginning, we must give ourselves time to feel the loss and communicate our needs. This is when vulnerability becomes necessary. Ask for help — even the kind you never imagined asking for.

My own biggest ask was to my oldest son: I needed help creating a budget so I could see my life from today forward. I didn’t have the energy to do it alone. Working with him opened up new channels of communication that I needed then and still need now. It’s not the same communication Rich and I shared, but I know Steve will listen, and when appropriate, gently guide. I’m still the captain of my ship, navigating unfamiliar waters, but I also know Steve and Alex are holding a life preserver should I need it. We all need someone who can anchor us during this turbulent time. No one has to sail the choppy waters alone — there are people in your life waiting for us to ask.

Since Rich died, I’ve held onto my routines. Even after my accident, which has slowed me down physically, I’ve continued many of those routines — including this daily blog. They support both my physical and mental health, and I owe it to Rich to keep living fully.

When I read posts in widow and widower groups, I hear the same struggles: trouble sleeping, eating, working, socializing, and tears that won’t stop. These experiences are normal at first. But when you begin asking, “When will I feel normal again?” my answer is: when you make the choice to begin.

Start with baby steps.

Learn to laugh again. Watch something funny. Stream a comedy. Visit a comedy club. Remember the silly things your spouse did — the moments that once made you smile.

Invite a friend for coffee or a meal. Try a new place. Create a new memory. One of my first outings was with a new friend, Rita, at a restaurant I had never visited. We shared our stories, and in doing so, brought the energy of our husbands to the table.

Let people ask how you’re doing — and answer honestly. They already know you’re sad and lonely. Admit it. Then ask for what might help fill that space. Phone calls can be lifelines. Rides to appointments can be support or companionship. Let people show up for you.

And choose to embrace silence as part of your healing. Silence can be the sound of nature, music that soothes your soul, or readings that bring positivity. It’s in these quiet moments that we often find the strength to keep going.

Join me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 66– When You Reach One Person

If you believe you’re all alone, it may be because you haven’t looked around to see who’s still standing near you. Even in marriage, there were moments when I felt isolated, misunderstood, or vulnerable without a safety net. My husband was my best friend, but we didn’t always communicate in ways that met my needs — and that’s part of being human.

Becoming a widow, especially in the early stages, is a disorienting shift in identity. When a parent dies, you remain a son or daughter. When a sibling dies, you’re still a sister or brother. If a child dies, you are still a mother or father. But when a spouse dies, the world suddenly strips away the word married and replaces it with a label that feels cold and unflattering.

Across cultures and communities, widows and widowers often face subtle — and sometimes blatant — exclusion. The reasons vary, but they usually stem from fear, misunderstanding, or long‑standing social norms. Religious and cultural groups may even judge what they consider “incorrect behavior,” adding pressure to a heart already carrying grief.

Losing your person is hard enough. Losing the social circle that once felt like home is another kind of heartbreak. There is a quiet threat dynamic that emerges: couples sometimes view a newly single person as a disruption, or even a danger to their equilibrium. And so, the griever is left alone at the very moment they most need connection.

Finding new friends — especially those who understand grief — can be healing, but it shouldn’t be the only path. We also need space to honor our spiritual and emotional rhythms, which don’t always match those around us. Grief ebbs and flows, and we need room to move with it.

Today you may not be grieving, but tomorrow you might be. Practicing empathy strengthens all of us. Human kindness is universal, and it doesn’t require a grand gesture. Don’t ask someone what they need — simply show up. Sit beside them. Hold their hand. Bring a Starbucks, a Dairy Queen treat, or your homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Some people feel uncomfortable when asked how they’re doing. I’m not one of them. I appreciate the question. I’m an open book, and if you ask on a heavy day, I’ll tell you. Sometimes sharing is the first step toward finding a new direction.

If you’re grieving and feel alone, you still have choices. If you’re reading this, you’re already on social media — a place where connection is possible. Reach out. Explore local groups. I’ve organized meetups at a nearby coffee shop, and every time, someone has shown up. They’re seeking connection too.

I could sink into self‑pity, but I choose not to. That doesn’t mean I don’t have moments — I do — but I refuse to become my own victim.

My husband had no idea how ill he truly was, or that his heart was so weak it would fail without warning. We believed we had another five to ten years together. His passing was sudden, and my sons and I have had to pivot, learning to live without him — but still with his energy.

I am not the first widow to walk this road, and I won’t be the last. But I am determined to make the most of each day, and I encourage you to do the same.

Join me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 65– Someone Hurts More than I Do!

The last twenty‑four hours have been rough. The discomfort from my fractures has intensified, but I’m managing it because I want to feel better — and I’m determined to heal.

As I sit here recovering, I find myself scrolling through social media, reading post after post from people I know and people I don’t. What strikes me is how many of us share similar stories of pain and grief. For some, the pain is acute — sharp, sudden, and temporary. For others, it’s chronic and relentless. I’ve lived with chronic pain since 1969, when migraines first entered my life, and I’ve spent fifty‑seven years learning how to coexist with them. We can adapt to the challenges life hands us, or we can succumb. I choose to adapt, and this past week has been no exception.

Growing up, if I complained or kvetched about life, my mother would remind me that others had it harder. If I didn’t believe her, she’d take me to the poorer side of town or to the children’s hospital to show me how blessed I was. I understood her point, but there were still moments when my pain felt unfair and overwhelming.

As an adult, I’ve learned to live more fully — even with physical discomfort — and to appreciate that pain is sometimes part of the healing process. Emotional pain can create physical pain too, and last night I caught myself holding in thoughts that were making everything worse. My breathing became rapid and shallow, which only heightened the discomfort. I had to consciously slow down, take deeper breaths, and relax as best I could. No one can do this for us. We are responsible for regulating our emotions, and positive self‑talk has become one of my most important tools.

Positive self‑talk is the practice of speaking to yourself in a way that is encouraging, supportive, and constructive rather than critical or fear‑based. It’s the inner dialogue that keeps us grounded and emotionally regulated, especially during stress or uncertainty. It’s a form of self‑care we all deserve.

Affirmations are the heart of positive self‑talk. I often repeat to myself, “I’m OK.” I don’t expect perfection — I just need balance, and “OK” is enough for me.

If you struggle to find your kind inner voice, seek guidance in mindful living. Find the path that brings you the peace and joy you deserve.

For those of us on the grief journey — and truly, that includes millions, even billions — we must give ourselves permission to be happy. As Oscar the Grouch sings, “Let a smile be your umbrella on a rainy, rainy day.” A smile can brighten someone else’s world, so why not ours?

As we strengthen our inner voice and reclaim our happiness, it’s also important to stay aware of the people around us and the impact they can have on our emotional state. But their impact only reaches us if we allow it. With mindful techniques and positive self‑talk, life becomes easier to navigate.

Please join me on my journey…#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 64 – One Week Later

What a difference a day makes — even a week. Last Sunday morning I sat at my computer mapping out my plans, never imagining that by evening I’d be in the ER. After a few hours at the condo pool, I came home, showered, slipped, fell, and crawled out of the bathroom trying to reach the refuge of my bedroom. That’s when the truth hit: I was in PAIN. I tried to breathe through it, tried to rest, but within minutes I called 911.

After Rich died, I had a knock box installed at my door so emergency responders could enter even if I couldn’t get up. As I lay on my bed counting the minutes — 5, 10, 15, 20 — my phone rang. It was 911. The paramedics were outside, but the fire chief with the knock‑box key was at a fire. “Can you open your door?” they asked. Excuse me — do I now have a choice?

Somehow I got up, inch by inch, dizzy and nauseous from the pain, and made my way down the stairs to let them in. After a quick evaluation they asked if I wanted transport to the hospital. Yes. I was alone, in pain, and unsure what I had injured. If Rich were here, he would have asked the same question — though he always believed I was stronger and healthier than I actually felt. So off we went. Not exactly a Sunday Fun Day.

The ER Ordeal

I arrived at Ahuja and was immediately placed in a room, moved from gurney to gurney, and left alone with the door closed and no call button. My nurse was kind but difficult to understand — a heavy Jamaican accent muffled further by her mask. Even with my hearing aids, I caught only fragments. If Rich were alive, he would have been my second pair of ears.

After exams, X‑rays, and a CT scan, a doctor told me I had major fractures and a possible spinal injury. I was being transferred to UH Main Campus to be evaluated by the trauma and surgical team. No real explanation, no clarity — just movement.

During the transfer, someone forgot to lock the wheels on one of the gurneys. At “1‑2‑3,” I nearly fell between them.

At UH Main, I spent over an hour in the hallway waiting for a room. When I finally got one, several medical staff hovered over me — not the trauma team, just the initial crew trying to settle me in. Again, no call button.

Then came repeated X‑rays and scans. No one could tell me why. No one could tell me what they saw. “Someone will tell you,” they kept saying.

Hours passed before an ER doctor explained that the trauma team was reviewing everything and I’d need another full‑body CT. I was told I had multiple rib fractures, concern about lung puncture, and a fracture at T12 — a vertebra that, depending on severity, can affect everything from pain to paralysis.

I kept waiting for panic to hit. For hysteria. For the emotional collapse that grief sometimes primes. But I stayed calm. Maybe shock. Maybe survival mode. Maybe the muscle memory of being a wife who once had to stay mindful and alert for someone else’s care.

Still, the truth was unavoidable: being alone in a medical crisis is terrifying. And if I hadn’t been fully cognitive, aware, and reaching out to family and friends by phone, my care might have been even worse — because yes, the care was lacking.

The Lapses in Care

No call button — repeatedly.
A cervical collar placed on me by mistake.
Nearly dropped between gurneys.
Left in a hallway for over an hour after a trauma transfer.
Repeated scans with no explanation.
Almost 48 hours in the ER.
Moved to a basement ER area with no cell signal — unable to reach family.
Finally placed in a semi‑private room with a groaning roommate.
Told my nurse was “busy” and waited 45 minutes before anyone came.
A nurse whose soft voice and accent made communication nearly impossible — even after I explained my hearing limitations.
Medication pushed on me despite my chart clearly stating I do not take it.

And yet, woven through all of this, were individual staff members who were kind, gentle, and clearly strained. The problem wasn’t them — it was the system they’re forced to operate in. A system where business decisions overshadow medical judgment. A system where staff are expected to smile, say little, and move fast. A system where patients become tasks instead of humans.

One example says it all: On day two in the ER, I asked if I was allowed to eat. I wasn’t on an IV and had only had water with medication. The nurse looked confused, checked my chart, and said, “Let me order you a tray.” How was I supposed to know I was allowed to eat?

The Outcome

The good news — and there is good news:

I have five fractured ribs.
The T‑12 fracture appears minimal and may even be old.
OT and PT gave me clear guidance on movement and recovery.
I came home Thursday to recuperate.
I can walk around my house, make simple meals, and rest.
Friends will help with what I can’t manage.

This experience has taught me more than I ever wanted to know about our broken medical system. We need change — real change. Business majors should not be making medical decisions. Medical professionals need the authority to care for patients the way they were trained to. And patients need to be heard, because we know our bodies.

This experience has taught me far more than I ever wanted to learn about the cracks in our medical system. Change isn’t optional — it’s urgent. We cannot keep letting business majors dictate medical decisions. Clinical judgment belongs to medical professionals, not corporate strategists. And above all, patients deserve to be heard, because we live in our bodies every day and we know when something is wrong.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 63 – Another Sunny Sunday

If this is your first time reading one of my posts, please call me Karen.

Although the title widow is legally mine, I don’t like using it. Even today, the word carries outdated assumptions—widows are seen as threats to couples or as somehow “less than” because they now stand alone. It’s astonishing how quickly society can make a solo person feel so low.

Why are we so insecure about the idea that a single woman or man might spend time with a married couple? Why do we assume temptation is lurking? I don’t believe for a moment that if any of my married friends invited me for coffee, dinner, or a game of cards, I’d suddenly be attracted to their husbands—or they to me. Yet the moment you shift from two to one, you’re often nudged out of the couples’ circle and left to rebuild a new one from scratch.

If you doubt this, scroll through social media. The theme is everywhere. When we first lose our partner, people surround us with support. But soon, they drift back to their routines, leaving us stranded. We’re grieving the loss of our love, and then—on top of that—we’re more alone than ever because others choose not to include us.

Widowers often have an easier time. A man with resources is quickly surrounded by single women, divorcees, and widows eager to care for him. But after 42 years of a good marriage, I have no desire to take care of anyone except myself.

One of the greatest losses we experience is the loss of touch. A new friend told me she gets regular manicures—not for the polish, but for the human contact. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Now I understand how profound that need is.

I have two sons, and they hug differently. One is loving; the other is loving and comforting. I look forward to both—not just because they’re my boys, but because those hugs remind me I’m still human.

I grew up in a family of huggers. My first husband’s family wasn’t affectionate, and I lost some of that spontaneity. But Richard was a hugger—a gentle toucher. Even on my gloomiest days, he reached for me, reminding me I was seen, safe, and loved. When you become a solo act, you miss what seems like a “little” thing, but it’s not little at all.

I was never one to use lotions or creams, but now I find myself applying them to my hands, feet, arms, and legs—offering myself the gentleness of touch. I’m learning it’s OK to be me. Now I want others to accept me as me.

Making new friends is wonderful. Connecting with like‑minded people is healing. But being widowed shouldn’t exclude me from couples. Friendship is a bond between individuals, and even within a couple, each person is still an individual. Friendship is emotional support and honesty—not intimacy. We’ve allowed fear and misunderstanding to distort our relationships after someone loses a spouse.

We’ve built our circles around couples, but the younger generation is wiser. Their social lives are group‑based, inclusive, fluid. It’s time we revisit the circle.

As Karen—widow or not—I’m choosing to create human contact every day.

Take a walk and say hello to the people you pass.
Chat with the cashier at the grocery or drug store.
Call a friend or family member.
If you work outside the home, talk with your co‑workers—they may be lonely too.
Join a gym or community center and find an activity that feels good.
Volunteer and create structure in your day.
Arrange a social meet‑up at a local coffee shop and meet new people.
Take the first step—invite a couple to join you for a meal. Show them you’re not a threat; you’re a friend.

It may not seem fair that, while grieving, we also have to rebuild our lives. A wise teacher once told me that life isn’t fair—and he was right. He also told me to stop feeling sorry for myself and stop focusing on what I thought I didn’t have, because I could create what I needed.

It’s my choice how I live the rest of my days. And I choose connection.

My Way – Frank Sinatra

And now, the end is near
And so I face the final curtain
My friend, I’ll say it clear
I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain
I’ve lived a life that’s full
I traveled each and every highway
And more, much more than this
I did it my way

Regrets, I’ve had a few
But then again, too few to mention
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption
I planned each charted course
Each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this
I did it my way

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 62 – It Was a Mahjong Afternoon

Who said it couldn’t be done? We are never too old to make new friends. Every one of us has the ability to step out of loneliness by being just a little vulnerable and reaching beyond our comfort zones.

I want to challenge anyone reading this to start a meet‑up of your own. And if your first invitation falls flat, try again. I did.

As many of you know from my blogs, my husband died in January. My boys rallied around me, but they live in other cities and have full lives of their own. I refuse to be a burden or intrude on their paths. I knew I had to do something for myself — and I have, and I will continue to.

It wasn’t easy. The first time I posted an invitation for a meet‑up, no one showed up. I sat at Panera with my coffee, scrolled through my phone, and eventually went home. But that one lonely posting led me to Joan, who has become a dear friend. She introduced me to a wonderful circle of women (and a few men). It only takes one “yes” to light the candle.

A couple of weeks ago, I tried again — this time inviting women to play Mahjong. The response was exhilarating. Twelve women showed up today. And this was just the beginning. We’re already scheduled through December, and I believe we’ll continue well into 2027.

I’ve spent my life planning for others — in friendship, in business, in community. But reaching out on a personal level has always been harder for me. Rejection is not my favorite feeling, and my mind tends to wander in that direction. Yet I can feel my husband’s energy nudging me to live more fully, and that means taking the next step. I’m learning to accept “no” as simply information, not rejection. I’m also learning to use that same word myself, to make choices that honor my own needs.

Someone today shared something that struck me deeply. She said that although she misses her husband terribly, she is grateful to be responsible only for herself now. She spends time with her children and grandchildren, but she chooses how to live her own life — and that isn’t selfish. It’s healthy. It’s human. It’s what we all deserve.

I understood her completely. As much as I loved Rich — and still do — I was the one who took care of everything for the two of us. I would do it again in a heartbeat. But without him, I’m learning how important I am.

You are important too. You deserve to live for yourself. And doing so honors the loved ones we’ve lost. They would never want us to spend our days in sorrow. I believe they are watching us, waiting for our smiles, listening for our laughter to return.

I’ve shared this story before, but it bears repeating.

When I was nine, my maternal grandmother — my Baube — died. I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral, but I spent time each day at my aunt’s house where the family was sitting shiva. On the first day, just hours after the funeral, I overheard my mother and her sisters talking and laughing. My nine‑year‑old heart couldn’t understand it. How could they laugh? Their mother was gone.

I confronted them, upset and confused. My mother tried to comfort me, but I wasn’t ready to hear it. It was my father who gently pulled me aside. He told me a story about my Baube — I don’t remember the story itself, but I remember that it made me laugh. He explained that it was okay to be sad and laugh at the same time. He encouraged me to think about the things my Baube and I shared, so the sadness wouldn’t feel so heavy.

What I learned at nine is that loving memories allow us to carry someone with us throughout our lives. Sixty‑seven years later, I still think of my Baube, and those memories make me smile. She didn’t keep candy in her house, but every Sunday she had a bowl of sugar cubes for us kids — and a dish of garbanzo beans. I’m smiling ear to ear as I write this.

I can’t tell you how to live your life after loss. But I can encourage you to live it. Reach out. There are hands waiting to meet yours along the path.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 61 – Mahjong Day

I grew up watching my mother play Mahjong, surrounded by circles of women who became her lifelong friends. She wasn’t an extrovert or an introvert — she simply lived in the moment. She stepped out of her comfort zone without hesitation, following her instincts and creating community wherever she went. Only recently have I realized how blessed she truly was. She had the love of her life — my dad — and she also had friends, family, and more friends than she could ever count.

I, on the other hand, have often felt a distance between myself and the people I connect with. I’m fortunate to have friends from elementary school, high school, and throughout my career, but none of them live close enough to be part of my everyday life — at least not until now.

Over the past six months, I’ve pushed myself out of my comfort zone, and today is a perfect example of that growth.

Two months ago, I joined a group of women who meet monthly to play Mahjong. I enjoyed it, but I found myself wanting something more — something closer to home, something that could become part of my regular rhythm. I’ll continue with the monthly group, but I felt called to create an additional space in my life.

I’ve spent years organizing events for others, so why not do it for myself? I posted on social media that I’d be hosting a Mahjong Meet-Up today at Panera in Macedonia at 11 a.m.

At first, I expected two or three responses. Now I’ve lost count. I sensed it might grow beyond a small gathering, but seeing it actually happen has left me both overwhelmed and excited.

We may or may not get to play a round or two today. I might spend the time meeting, greeting, and laying the groundwork for what this group could become. But what matters most is that I’m living my life one moment at a time — and today, that moment includes meeting new people and planting the seeds of a Mahjong community.

As I get ready to head out, I feel a spark of joy. Today is a special treat, and I’m grateful to be stepping into it.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 60- Friday

It’s Friday, and if you grew up in the 50s or 60s, you remember what that meant. Friday was freedom. School was out, work was done, and the weekend stretched ahead like a promise. There were dances, house parties, sleepovers, and the feeling that life was happening everywhere you looked.

Even when I became a young working wife, Fridays still carried that sense of ease — a chance to let my hair down. Over time, of course, life shifted. Raising a family, juggling responsibilities, and the economy nudging us into multiple jobs changed the rhythm. But the memory of those carefree Fridays stayed with me.

In the last couple of years, Rich tried to bring some of that magic back. He made Friday nights special again — taking me out to dinner, sharing a meal, talking about everything and nothing. It was simple, and it was ours.

Now, as the story goes, it’s just me. I have friends and family I spend time with, but there’s no routine like the old days, and Friday nights can feel a little lonely.

I’m learning to take that loneliness and turn it into me time — writing, reading, finding something that steadies my mind and softens the empty spaces. I’ll admit, I envy the couples who are out tonight, and I hope they appreciate what they have. As much as I loved Rich, I didn’t always appreciate every moment. I’m human. There were times I wished for more. But I won’t let those moments distort the truth: even if life wasn’t perfect, it was wonderful.

I think back to something Bill Gates said in 1986/87 when Rich worked at Microsoft. During a training session, Bill told the group that no one would ever receive all 5’s on their evaluation. Perfection, he said, leaves no room for innovation or growth. That philosophy shaped Rich’s career — and eventually shaped mine, and Alex’s too. Rich taught himself to design programs for Fortune 500 companies, always taking the next step, always learning. And on nights like this, when the loneliness creeps in, I remember that lesson.

If life were perfect, there would be no grief. Grief is simply the emotion we feel when something meaningful ends — and scientifically, life has a beginning and an end. We influence life, but we don’t control it.

What we can control is how we live. We have a responsibility to choose peace and kindness. We don’t have to like everyone, but we do have to stop hating. We don’t have to be happy all the time — sadness, overwhelm, and “blah” days are part of being human. Life isn’t perfect, but appreciating the moments can turn an upside‑down smile right‑side up.

So yes, I may feel a little envious of the couples out tonight. My life isn’t perfect. But I’m OK. And tonight, I’m choosing to lift the corners of my mouth and turn my downturned lips into an upturned smile.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 59- Envious

A dear new friend made a suggestion today — and I listened. Since she mentioned it during our informal get‑together, my mind has been racing in the best way, and I’m ready to explore it.

I’m considering offering a monthly dialogue through Don’t Call Me a Widow, each episode focusing on a specific topic we face after losing a spouse or significant other. I’d love your input on subjects to cover, and I’m also open to having guests join me as co‑hosts for these conversations.

During today’s meetup, we shared our experiences of loss and the complicated path of life after death. Each of us carries a different story, yet we’re traveling a similar road — one filled with potholes we must learn to navigate if we want to keep moving forward. We agreed that sharing our journeys helps us grow into who we are meant to be now. We are not who we once were; life evolves, and so do we.

One episode will focus on the emotional rollercoaster — or earthquake — that grief brings: (this may be multiple episodes)

Grief feels like the punch in the gut when the rollercoaster drops.
Shock hits when the title widow/widower becomes ours and the ground shifts beneath us.
Loneliness arrives when the daily touch and familiar words go silent.
Guilt, relief, anger, numbness — all real, all valid.
And then there are the reactions from others: awkwardness, avoidance, uncertainty.

Talking openly about these experiences helps normalize loss. It’s the first step toward tomorrow.

We also need space to discuss rebuilding:

Daily life: sleep, nutrition, self‑care, independence
New routines: learning to ask for help when needed
Decision-making: seeking guidance and giving ourselves grace for mistakes
Mindfulness: carrying the energy of our loved one forward

And then there’s the avalanche of logistics:

Understanding accounts — and knowing that if an account isn’t in your name, you have no liability
Learning to make financial decisions with reliable support
Navigating benefits, insurance, Social Security, annuities
Deciding when to purge belongings

And of course, brain fog — the part no one warns you about:

Concentration issues
Intrusive thoughts and sudden waves of grief
Trauma’s impact on memory and decision-making
Finding a support system that understands your unique grief

This is the kind of honest, compassionate dialogue I want to bring forward each month. If you have topics you’d like covered or if you’d like to join me as a guest, I welcome your voice.

Thank you Donna –

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 58 Brought to You Live

Today I’m sharing this video — bringing reality to the screen. Please call me Karen.

I am six months into this journey, and most of my tears have been internal rather than visible. From the outside, I may look “OK,” and maybe in some ways I am, but I’m not always sure. Widowhood is a quiet shift that happens beneath the surface long before anyone else notices.

There’s an image of what it means to be a widow: a woman whose spouse has died and who has not remarried. The male term is widower. According to custom, widowhood begins the moment our spouse dies.

With widowhood come legal realities — inheritance rights, survivor benefits, Social Security. Depending on the state, some rights are automatic, with or without a will. But beyond the paperwork, there are cultural layers too. In some traditions, widows face social stigma. And in many societies today, widows remain one of the most vulnerable populations, with higher rates of poverty and discrimination.

Emotionally, the shift is profound. Losing a spouse brings shock, grief, loneliness, and a deep sense of disorientation. Our identity changes — we were one of two, and now we are one of one. Daily life rearranges itself. Responsibilities multiply, even if the responsibility is simply finding someone else to do what our spouse once handled.

We face decisions that were never discussed, and with them comes the ache of wondering if we’re letting our partner down. Social circles shift, sometimes without our choosing. The landscape of life looks familiar but feels foreign.

In this series, I’m sharing my thoughts and my journey, and I’m asking you to walk with me. Together, we can grow stronger as we navigate this emotional rollercoaster. We can’t step off the ride, but we can find steadiness in the ups and downs — and ease some of the emotional weight we carry.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 57 ASK

Asking for a favor should be simple, yet it stirs up emotions that stop us in our tracks. Too often, we don’t ask at all. We assume — and yes, we all know what assuming does — that the answer will be negative, so we choose silence instead.

When we ask for something, we’re admitting we can’t do it alone. Big or small, it doesn’t matter. The moment we reach out, we make ourselves vulnerable. Even those of us who never say “no” to others struggle to meet our own needs. (Yes… I’m talking about me.)

Tell me if this sounds familiar:

Fear of being a burden — you don’t want to inconvenience anyone.
Fear of rejection — hearing “no” stings more than we expect.
Fear of indebtedness — payback isn’t always easy or comfortable.
Fear of misinterpretation — you worry someone will see you as needy.

No one wants to feel rejected, yet we let our emotions drag us into that direction, creating more angst than we deserve.

If you grew up being taught self‑sufficiency and “low maintenance,” asking for help can feel like breaking a lifelong rule.

But here’s what I learned in the last 24 hours: most people genuinely want to help if they can.

They feel closer to us when they’re able to do a favor.
They don’t see weakness — they see humanity.
They appreciate being asked.

Before you reach out, name the real fear that’s holding you back. Naming it softens it.

Recently, I needed help with something my husband would have handled without a second thought. Now that he’s gone, I had to face the reality that I needed someone else. What held me back wasn’t the task — it was the ache of wanting him. Once I acknowledged that truth, the emotional weight shifted, and I could finally ask.

“The first step to receiving an answer is being brave enough to ask the question.”

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 56 Medical…

When you’re part of a couple, you rarely think twice about medical procedures. Your partner drives you, waits for you, supports you. It’s simply part of the rhythm of shared life. But when your other half dies, that rhythm disappears. Yes, friends and acquaintances might be willing to step in, but if you’re not someone who likes to ask for help, the gap feels even wider.

I’m now facing that gap head‑on because — lucky me — it’s time for a colonoscopy. I knew it was coming, and today the call finally arrived with the date and time. I was told I can Uber to the appointment, but I cannot Uber home. I asked about medical ride‑share programs, and those aren’t acceptable either. Someone has to accompany me and drive me back.

I understand the liability. I understand the policy. But I also found myself wondering: What do people do when they don’t have someone?

And the truth is, I’m not even sure if I do have someone, because I haven’t asked. I know I’d be the first to volunteer for someone else — if I were available and if the location made sense — and I expect others to have those same boundaries. That’s part of my hesitation. What’s the worst someone can say? “No.” But I don’t want to feel needy or dependent, even though that’s exactly how I feel.

It dawned on me that I have a friend who works as a caregiver. I could reach out, pay her for her time, and know I’d be in good hands. And I may do just that. But underneath the logistics is a deeper sadness: Rich isn’t here. With him, everything was simple. Now even routine things feel overwhelming.

People ask me what the hardest part of being a widow is — besides the label itself — and my answer is always the same: feeling alone. Yes, I have friends and family who fill in the gaps, but the human touch is different. Forty‑two years of marriage created a rhythm, a language, a way of moving through the world together. Now I’m learning a new language, trying to find the strength to be independent while also learning how to ask for help. I haven’t found my new beat yet. I feel like I’m swaying in the breeze.

But I am determined to work through this. I will find the tools I need, step by step. Life is an adventure, and I’m on a new one — whether I asked for it or not.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 55 Another Week

August 2, 1964 — a day history remembers for the Gulf of Tonkin, and a day I remember for entirely different reasons. While the world was bracing for a military escalation in Vietnam, I was a 14‑year‑old girl thinking only about my big brother’s wedding and the fact that I was a bridesmaid. The excitement in our house was electric — until I decided it was time to shave my legs for the very first time.

Armed with my father’s razor and his shave cream, I went to work… and promptly carved up my legs like a novice butcher. Blood streamed down my shins, my mother’s horror echoed through the house, and the pre‑wedding joy turned into a full‑blown storm. I remember crying as I walked from room to room, leaving a dotted trail of red while my parents tried to get me to stand still. Eventually my father appeared with his styptic pencil, dabbing each nick with that fiery sting that made stars burst behind my eyes. But the bleeding stopped, the storm passed, and we returned to the wedding whirlwind.

It was a day of firsts: my first time shaving, my first time being a bridesmaid, and — in a twist only adolescence can produce — my first time having two dates. I had invited Alan Young, who never responded, so I asked Mark Davis. He said yes. And then, of course, they both showed up. Luckily they were friends, and the whole thing unfolded without drama.

It was also the first time I ever tasted alcohol. Somewhere in the archives of old 8mm film, there may still be evidence of me dancing my own questionable version of the Watusi. I don’t remember much about the reception except that I had a wonderful time and made a spectacular fool of myself — as only a 14‑year‑old can.

But beneath the fun, the day carried a heavy sadness. The very next morning, my parents, Joel, and I would be packing up our home and moving twelve hours away to Minnesota. At the time, it felt like we were leaving civilization and heading into the Wild West. My dad promised it would be a great adventure. He also didn’t give us much of a choice.

My brother Gary’s wedding became a farewell party — hugs, kisses, tears, and for me, an intoxicated mix of giddiness and awkwardness. I tried desperately to get my first kiss that night and failed miserably. My two dates were polite, but I simply wasn’t their type. So, I left Michigan with virgin lips and a bruised teenage ego.

The next morning, August 3rd, I woke with my first-ever headache — a full-blown hangover I didn’t understand. The movers arrived early, and I had no time to recover. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends stopped by for one more round of good‑byes. My mother wore a brave face, but I knew her heart was breaking.

By mid-afternoon the moving van pulled away, and we followed. The car was quiet as we left behind everything familiar. Fourteen years for me, eighteen for Joel, forty‑four for my mother, forty‑seven for my father — and suddenly we were all starting over. Dad kept promising an adventure.

The farther we drove, the more foreign everything felt. My mother realized how far she was moving from her sisters, and long‑distance calls were expensive. Her daily conversations with them would now be rare luxuries.

We drove straight through to Minnesota, arriving the next evening — only to discover our furniture wouldn’t arrive for days. So, Dad took us to a discount store to buy essentials: toilet paper, soap, and four inflatable pool rafts to sleep on. The kind that barely fit an adult.

That first night, climbing the stairs to our third‑floor apartment with our bargain‑bin supplies and those ridiculous rafts, none of us felt the spirit of adventure Dad had promised. When Joel looked at me and declared, “I’m not sharing a room with her,” I wondered what on earth we had gotten ourselves into.

We all ended up on the living room floor, trying to sleep on those plastic rafts. Every tiny movement sent one of us rolling off onto the floor — only an inch or two, but enough to make us laugh until our sides hurt. Eventually we learned that the floor itself was more comfortable than the rafts.

Within a couple of days, the furniture arrived. Joel and I shared a room temporarily until he left for the University of Minnesota, thrilled to trade his sister for a stranger as a roommate.

That was my life 62 years ago. So much has happened since then — changes, evolutions, heartbreaks, joys — all shaping me in ways I never could have imagined.

Looking back, there were many moments when life felt unfair, when the struggles seemed too heavy. But hindsight has a way of softening the edges. I can see now how each challenge helped shape the woman I became.

And sometimes, when I reflect on those years, I long for the warm cocoon of my parents’ love — even though at 14 I didn’t always appreciate them. The safety of that home became the foundation that allows me to live with positivity today. I carry their love and nurturing with me still, and I share it with the people around me.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 53 Remembering August 2, 1964

This morning, something I read on Facebook triggered a deep reaction in me. A friend—someone who also lost her husband within the last six months—shared how unbearable it feels to be a widow and estranged from family. Her words carried a heaviness I recognized, but they also reminded me of something important.

What I can offer may sound like “just words,” but it’s more than that: Family may be blood, but true commitment is found in friendship. I would rather have genuine friends than blood relatives who do not care.

I never used to think of myself as lucky. But reading her post this morning made me realize that I am lucky—in family and in friendship. I have known estrangement, and I have survived it because of the people who truly care. Many of those people are not related to me by blood.

As the youngest of three, and the only daughter, I was fortunate to have two older brothers who have been part of my entire life. Even when distance or age separated us, we stayed connected—by choice. And that’s what life is: a series of choices. We are responsible only for our own. If someone chooses to walk out of our life, we must keep walking forward. One day they may choose to catch up, and then we will decide whether to walk hand in hand or continue on our own path.

Estrangement happens when someone withdraws and distances themselves. A relationship breaks when one party stops communicating. Too often, the person who initiates the separation cannot—or will not—explain why.

Signs of estrangement include:

Communication that reduces or stops
Emotional distance that leaves the relationship one‑sided
Intentional withdrawal that lasts months or years, often without explanation

Clinically, estrangement may stem from:

Emotional abuse or neglect
Boundary violations
Unmet needs
Ideological differences
Addiction or mental health issues
Fractured family dynamics

Estrangement is an invisible grief—a loss without ceremony or closure. It can change a life on both sides of the divide. This is an ambiguous loss: a loss with no clear ending, no resolution, and no easy way to move forward. The person is physically gone from your circle, yet emotionally still occupies space within you.

Only you can build the toolbox that helps you take the next step each day.

Believe in yourself. Do not allow another person’s choices to diminish your life. You are worthy, and there are people who believe in you.

“To the world you may be just one person, but to one person you may be the world.” —Dr. Seuss

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 52 A Morning Trigger

If the allegations against Max Miller include domestic abuse, it’s hard to understand why anyone would want to vote him into Congress to represent Ohio. And it’s even harder to understand why his former father‑in‑law, Bernie Moreno, would publicly support him when the woman at the center of these allegations is his own daughter.

There are also claims of illegal drug use — and while I acknowledge I don’t have every fact — it’s troubling that so many people in Ohio seem willing to ignore serious accusations and continue supporting this behavior. Why is it acceptable for someone like Max Miller to be elevated and celebrated while others pay the price for his actions?

When do we become wise enough to stop letting the wealthy and well‑connected shape our political landscape at the expense of everyday people?

As a woman who grew up believing deeply in equal rights and in the basic principle that no one has the right to harm another, reading these allegations — and seeing the support Miller receives from his ex‑father‑in‑law — makes my skin crawl.

My first marriage wasn’t perfect, but my father would never have tolerated even a fraction of what Bernie’s daughter reportedly endured: scalding water thrown at her, choking, a gun pointed at her head, and even a fractured collarbone for their two‑year‑old child. When my ex‑husband told me our marriage was over, my father took my hand and helped me walk away. Bernie, however, continues to stand behind the man accused of harming his own flesh and blood. That is my interpretation — and to be clear, my ex was not an abuser.

Ohio needs to wake up. This is where change begins. We must clean up our political mess. I don’t care which party someone supports — honesty and integrity should be the minimum requirement for anyone seeking office. We have to stop swallowing lies and start paying attention to what is right in front of us.

If we don’t clean up our homes and neighborhoods, how can we expect anything better from our leaders? Don’t we all want to feel safe in our own communities?

Domestic abuse is not a vague concept. It is a pattern of controlling, coercive, threatening, degrading, or violent behavior — often by a partner or ex‑partner, but sometimes by a family member or caregiver. It is real, and we can confront it if we stop closing our eyes.

Victims often feel they’ve lost control of their lives — and their children’s lives. When fathers like Bernie choose to support the abuser instead of their own child, the victim is left carrying the blame and the pain. In this case, we can choose not to look away.

In my first marriage, the abuse I faced came not from my husband but from my ex‑mother‑in‑law. For years I blamed my husband for her behavior until I found the courage to take control and leave the situation. I was fortunate to have a father who held my hand and helped me step away from the person causing harm.

When we witness abuse, we have a responsibility to help create a path toward safety. No one should remain a victim if we commit to living in a world grounded in kindness. Any one of us could face abuse at any point in our lives. Are you ready to confront it if it comes your way?

Abuse isn’t limited to marriages. It takes many forms, and elder abuse has become increasingly visible. Aging is difficult, and cognitive decline can create misunderstandings that escalate into frustration or anger among caregivers. Compassionate caregiving is challenging, and when compassion fails, the consequences can become headlines.

Aging requires patience, understanding, and mindfulness. Compassion isn’t something we simply learn — it’s something we practice. And when we allow abusers to walk free, we erode our collective ability to be compassionate.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 51 When the person you love is grieving

When someone you love is grieving and all you can offer is “I hear you” and “I love you,” it can feel painfully hollow. I want to be the fixer, the pleaser, the one who finds the magic wand that makes everything all better.

I think back to childhood, when my mother could kiss a scraped knee, place a band‑aid over the sting, and suddenly the world felt safe again. Why can’t I have that same magic for someone who is hurting now?

But the person I’m thinking of didn’t fall and skin her knee. Her pain comes from a lifetime of disappointments she believed she had already faced and moved beyond. The truth is, our past never disappears. It follows us, and sometimes it taps us on the shoulder with memories that reopen old wounds and stir fresh grief.

Today I listened to an Anderson Cooper podcast featuring a mother whose two sons died by suicide. She spoke with heartbreaking clarity: she will always be their mother, and she accepts that her sons made choices driven by internal pain that love and counseling could not erase. She chooses to believe they are at peace, even as she grieves their absence. She celebrates their lives while acknowledging that grief is the price of having loved deeply. We must learn to let grief work through us rather than destroy what remains.

As I listened, I thought about my own losses — how often I’ve pushed away sadness, convinced myself I’m fine, and tried to stay strong for others. And then I look at this person I care about, someone carrying more loss than anyone should have to bear, and I realize grief demands a response. Ignoring it doesn’t heal the wound; it infects it.

When my brother died, when Rich died, no one covered my pain with a comforting hand or a simple band‑aid. I hid my hurt, trying to lighten the burden for everyone else. Now I see that my own scraped knee has been quietly festering, and I’m still unsure how to soothe it.

So today, I’m letting myself feel it. I’m grieving in the way I know how: through journaling, through sharing my thoughts. Sometimes the words I write carry a quiet plea for help, understanding, or connection. When someone recognizes that and offers support, it strengthens me. But I don’t expect anyone to rescue me or make everything “all better.”

I have to make my own emotional choices — crying, screaming, laughing, sitting in silence, or anything in between. It’s my responsibility to tend to my own wounds, to place the band‑aid gently, and to trust that healing begins with acknowledging the hurt.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 51 When the person you love is grieving

For the past couple of weeks, life has felt slightly off for reasons that are both obvious and quietly layered. July marks six months since Richard’s passing, and it also marks what would have been our forty‑second wedding anniversary. Legally, I may be a widow, but in every way that matters, I am still married to Rich — and I will remain so through eternity.

I kept waiting for some kind of epiphany to arrive and mark this moment. Instead, I’ve been busy pushing myself to appear “OK,” even as my body has reminded me otherwise. My hearing aids died for the third time in six months, and while waiting for replacements, my backups failed too. The loaners from my audiologist caused sores in my ears, leaving me physically uncomfortable and emotionally spent. In less than six hours, I’ll finally receive my new aids, and I’m genuinely looking forward to hearing the world more clearly again.

Grief isn’t only the loss of my dear Richard. Grief gathers every loss we experience across a lifetime and drops them at our feet, often at the most inopportune time. As we age and evolve, everything around us shifts. When change happens slowly, we adapt. When it arrives suddenly, it can create a deep emotional ache that’s hard to shake.

Rich was my second pair of ears. If my hearing aids weren’t working, he often noticed before I did — he could hear the subtle changes in my responses. Without him, I struggled for over a week before realizing what was wrong. The decline was gradual until, suddenly, it was silent.

Hearing loss — like any medical condition — is an intangible loss. I can identify it, point to it, and acknowledge how it reshapes my life. What I cannot do is hold it in my hands or guarantee I will regain what has changed. It alters my identity in ways that are emotional, not physical. I will grieve it, but to protect my emotional health, I must address it and re‑identify myself as I move forward.

When I first lost my hearing, I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to acknowledge the deficit; it felt like a black mark on who I was. I hid behind my hearing aids for years, carrying unnecessary emotional pain. When I finally chose to acknowledge my loss and take steps to ease that pain, my life became my own again. My hearing didn’t return to what it once was, but I found comfort in using my aids and letting others know when I needed help — which is, after all, what friends are for.

We all have physical and emotional needs, and they change throughout our lives. We will face experiences that test our posture, and each of us must decide how we will live. We can carry the burden of loss, or we can adjust our expectations and keep moving forward.

Hiding behind my hearing aids caused additional grief. Not being honest with myself or others created conflict at work and in relationships. But once I accepted that I would be OK — just different — my outlook brightened.

I choose to live by pushing myself gently and exploring my options. Unhappiness can seep into life without warning or reason. But something I learned from Sesame Street has stayed with me: Let a smile be your umbrella on a rainy day. I turn my umbrella upside down and let it catch the sad and negative thoughts, transforming them into motivation.

Intangible loss may be something I cannot touch, but I can soften its impact by reshaping my perspective — living my life and being the best version of myself today and tomorrow.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 50 Getting my Hearing Back

Yesterday I slept in until 9:45 a.m., and this morning I was up at 6:30 — much closer to my usual rhythm. Even before Rich passed away, sleep often slipped through my fingers, leaving me to move through my days in a kind of functional fog. I get things done, but I often feel like a walking zombie. I know that sounds strange, but it’s the truth. Yesterday when I should have felt more rested I kept thinking about taking a nap, unless you count the mini eye closure I did while sitting at my computer a nap, I stayed awake all day.

Yesterday should have been a more rested day, yet I kept thinking about taking a nap. Aside from the few seconds my eyes drifted shut at the computer, I stayed awake.

My followers have asked me to share what my days look like now. There’s nothing extraordinary about them, but I try to stay mindful of who I am, what I need, and what I want to do.

My mornings are fairly routine. I wake up, eat breakfast, and sit by the dining room window to take in the natural beauty outside. Earlier in the season the birds were lively — singing, swooping, and filling my neighbor’s two birdhouses. Now those houses sit quiet. The chipmunks and squirrels that chased each other across my yard seem to have found new territory. Living on the edge of the Cuyahoga Valley National Park means I’m surrounded by greenery, but I miss the little creatures that used to keep me company.

One of the first changes I made after Rich died was moving the dining room furniture. It gave me a comfortable front-row seat to the outdoors, a place where I could feel held by nature while still inside my home. I also transformed my office into a true working space — my own little palace. Sitting at my desk, I feel like a queen or at least someone with authority over her own life. Work has always been essential for me, not the 9-to-5 kind, but the work of caring for myself and creating a life that feels steady.

For years I tied my well-being to income. And while money matters, I’m learning that my survivorship — my ability to live fully — depends more on my attitude than my bank account. I’m trying to reduce costs (no easy task these days) and to enjoy more. I’m discovering new things I like, and I’m learning to understand the things I don’t. As a child, if I said I didn’t like something but couldn’t explain why, my mother would say she’d give me something not to like. It always made me see things her way.

As a life-long people pleaser, I apologized too much, struggled to say no, and avoided conflict. Compared with my brothers, I was the easiest to raise — but also the unhappiest. My parents couldn’t understand my unhappiness and often told me to “snap out of it,” not realizing I was withdrawing into discomfort I didn’t yet know how to name it. They meant well, but life isn’t about snapping out of anything. It’s about understanding how you got there and finding your way out.

I believe we experience what we do — even the painful parts — to become the best version of ourselves. I also believe we influence our emotions, consciously and unconsciously, sometimes even seeking attention through them, including negative attention. Our emotions run constantly through our bodies and minds. Our brains sort through the data, shifting from “Oops, I messed up” to “Ah, that’s the answer.” We name these thoughts, often subconsciously, and they settle into emotional buckets: happiness, sadness, confusion. Each one demands to be addressed.

Mindful living helps quiet the spirals. When we pause, listen, and pivot, we interrupt the chaos. Our bodies and brains stay connected even when we feel disconnected. In fright, we freeze. In flight, we escape. Without breathing, pausing, and pivoting, we get stuck in a Catch-22. Our nervous system needs space to help us restore healthy habits. When the amygdala shouts “Danger!” the path forward is simple: stop, breathe, assess — and repeat. That’s how we create new choices.

This morning I woke up tired. I tried to push through the fatigue but soon found myself at the computer feeling agitated and overwhelmed. My thoughts froze. I took a few deep breaths and tried to shift my thinking, but my brain felt too tired to cooperate. So, I went back to bed. I needed sleep. As my head hit the pillow, the pulsating spasm in my forehead slowed, my breath softened, and I drifted off. Two hours later I woke up confused, still tired, but clearer. I took my time. I listened to my body for the physical cues to rise and let my brain guide me into motion.

Maybe this is grief telling me to slow down. Maybe it’s decades of doing everything for everyone telling me to stop. What I know is that the steps I took brought me to this moment, and I feel fine, although still feeling tired.

When we choose to live more mindfully we can reduce the interrupting thought spirals by learning to pause and listen and pivot.

I am the captain of my own ship. I’m the one who creates smooth sailing. Rough seas will come, but I trust myself to navigate them and to make choices that enhance my life.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 48 People Pleaser!

I’ve come to accept that the people‑pleaser in me has been part of my identity for a very long time. It may always be there. But I’m finally learning to shift the balance — to please myself more than I please others. And here’s why.

I spend so much of my day asking how I can help, what I can do, how I can ease someone else’s burden. That constant outward focus is exhausting and often leaves me feeling depleted and unseen. I’m not trying to become selfish or ignore the needs of people I care about. I’m trying to become mindful of how often helping others leaves me vulnerable, drained, and alone..

Grief has amplified the old voices and old pictures that float through my mind. What I’m noticing is my own need to be cared for — not by anyone else, but by me. I need to make clearer, cleaner decisions that may look uncaring from the outside, but are actually acts of self‑respect. I’ve spent a lifetime pleasing everyone else. It’s my turn.

I’m not ashamed of being the go‑to person. I know I may still be that person for many. But going forward, my first question will be: “How is this working for me?” If the answer is that it harms my physical or emotional well‑being, I will step back. My health matters as I evolve into this next version of myself.

I don’t expect to look different on the outside, but I already feel the shift internally. I’m learning to stop letting other people’s needs infiltrate my priorities. By doing so, I’m releasing years of anger and frustration I carried quietly — blaming others for what I continued to allow. I’m finally practicing what I preach: I am responsible for my actions, my choices, and my happiness. I carried the weight of everyone else’s expectations, thinking it made me a better helper. In reality, it only made me heavier.

Please don’t mistake this for becoming a “Class A Bitch.” What I’m becoming is mindful. What matters now is less nonsense and more living my best life each day.

For some, living their best life is about places, purchases, and accomplishments. For me, it’s about being present, honoring kindness, and returning love where it’s given.

As a parent, I once believed my job was to make my children happy. Now I understand my role was to help them build the tools to create their own happiness. Through reading, observing, and learning, I’ve accepted what I can control and what I cannot. I can only control my happiness — and I’m finally tending to it.

If I could offer one piece of advice, it would be this: stop blaming “things” for your attitude.

We all get the same 24 hours.
We choose how to use them.
We accomplish differently because we are
We are not clones or machines.
We are human.
- So, stop blaming grief, your car, the weather, other people, or yourself.
- Make a plan. Be aware. And stop creating reasons that don’t serve you.
- Some days you’ll accomplish X. Some days you’ll accomplish half of X.
- Some days you’ll try a new approach and discover it works better.
- Some days you’ll simply do less.
- Set expectations that allow for being human.

And stop placing blame.

Stop blaming yourself or others for temporary deficits — they change.
Stop blaming disruptions — they’re part of life.
Stop blaming Mother Nature — you’re still here, still living.
Stop blaming your upbringing — you can choose differently now.

I will be the best version of a people pleaser only when I learn how to truly please myself.

Please join me in on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 47 I Can’t Hear You

When I was first introduced to my hearing loss, I was sensitive, vulnerable, and very much in denial.

My journey began decades ago. After living with ear tubes as an adult, I was diagnosed with an osteoma in 2010—a non‑cancerous tumor that required reconstructive surgery on my left eardrum before it grew closer to my brain. Before being wheeled into the operating room, the left side of my face was marked to indicate where the surgeon would operate. So why did he begin on the right side, accidentally puncturing my right eardrum and causing additional hearing loss? That question has never been answered beyond a casual “Oops.”

After recovering from surgery, it was clear my hearing loss was significant enough to require hearing aids. Sixteen years ago, insurance didn’t consider hearing aids medically necessary, so coverage was nonexistent. Times have changed, but the coverage is still poor.

Although over‑the‑counter hearing aids work for many people, my situation is different. With a reconstructed eardrum on one side and a perforated eardrum on the other, I need precise technology—not just amplification. It has been an ongoing education for me, upgrading my aids every few years as their lifespan is typically three to seven years, and realistically closer to three.

My current hearing aids have been challenging. When Rich was alive, he was my second set of ears, especially when my backup pair failed. Since his passing, my primary aids have died three times. Each time they were sent back for repair, the fix didn’t last, and I found myself struggling again.

It is well documented that hearing loss affects memory, and I can admit I feel that confusion when my aids malfunction. Missing sounds and words disrupt the brain’s rhythm, and for me, it has led to headaches and ocular distortions—symptoms tied directly to the anxiety of living with unreliable hearing.

I am a proactive person. I respond quickly to situations I believe I should have control over.

A week ago, I hosted seven women for a day of Mahjong. When the first guest arrived, I realized my hearing aids weren’t working properly. I changed the batteries and turned them up a notch, but conversations still sounded like a Charlie Brown cartoon—Wha‑wha‑wha. I went with the flow, not wanting to burden anyone with my confusion.

After everyone left, the deep silence in my house told me everything: my hearing aids had shut off again. I turned them back on, they worked briefly and then shut off once more.

By Monday morning, my stress was high and my migraine was intense. My audiologist sent my aids back to the manufacturer for repair or replacement, and set up my backup pair—which, due to outdated software, offered limited adjustments.

For the past week, I’ve stayed close to home, canceling work assignments because my hearing is minimal. Phone conversations are difficult, so I limit them to reduce anxiety. My anxiety has been at the pinnacle of wanting to scream, but my head hurts too much to even consider it.

I’ve scheduled another appointment with my audiologist, and after discussing everything with my family, I’ve decided that regardless of what the manufacturer does with my “broken” aids, I need a second pair. I recommend this to anyone who depends on hearing aids or any medical equipment. Yes, it’s an extra cost—but in the last six months, I’ve had to stop living normally every time my aids fail.

For example, the other night at Jimmy John’s, I tried ordering a small veggie sub. I couldn’t understand the soft‑spoken employee behind the counter. Background noise overwhelmed her voice, and I felt embarrassed, frustrated, and—honestly—DUMB.

Most people don’t adjust their speech or volume because they’re unaware of what others are dealing with. Life can feel cruel simply because we don’t know what we don’t know. The counter person didn’t know my hearing was impaired. I didn’t tell her; I assumed I could fumble through. But it wasn’t fair to either of us. And in a brief encounter, are we supposed to tell someone our life story?

For me, the answer is preparation. Moving forward, I want to be better equipped—and I want to help others who are vulnerable find the tools and support they need to live independent, productive lives.

I am preparing to hear you.

Please join me in on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 46 – Taking a Pause

Some days we simply need to take a pause.

I’ve created a sleep routine that isn’t serving me. Most nights, five out of seven, I ride my stationary bike before settling in to “veg” and head to bed. My habit has been to climb into bed after riding, turn on the TV, and let myself drift into binge‑watching — not always the best choices. I allow the streaming to lull me to sleep, only to wake up confused, lost in the storyline, trying to rewind to figure out what I missed. It’s become a bad habit, and this morning I felt the full weight of it in the form of extreme fatigue.

I’ve been asking myself why, and when I finally took my pause, I realized the answer wasn’t about the routine itself — it was about recognizing that this is not something I want to continue.

As a life coach,

I guide my clients to understand their choices, interrupt patterns, and create habits that support the life they want. And this morning, as I crawled back into bed feeling spent, I understood that I cannot — and do not want to — keep going down this road.

So, I’m choosing a shift. I’ve used it before, but now I’m committing to using the sleep timer on my remote. Depending on the hour, I’ll decide how long I’m willing to stay awake, and then let the TV turn off so I can fall into a healthier night’s sleep. I’m also exploring an app that can help retrain my brain and body to work together, giving me the restorative rest I need.

Let’s talk about the pause.

A pause is a simple thing that carries quiet power. At its core, taking a pause means intentionally interrupting your momentum so you can reconnect with yourself before you keep going. It’s the moment when you stop doing and start noticing — and that’s exactly what I did this morning.

I recognized that my nervous system needs a reset. I’ve been swirling in too many directions, reacting and overreacting to every sound. My overthinking has been creating havoc in my body, showing up as aches and pains I know I can influence.

I see now that the pattern I’ve created needs to be interrupted. I have to stop the automatic behavior that isn’t working for me.

Allowing the Pause to work.

The pause helped me see more clearly. It warned me that it’s time.

Taking a pause allows me to make my choices — not let my choices make me.

The pause allows me to act, not react.

The pause reminds me that clarity is already within me.

I am thinking about myself, offering myself the care I need for a better tomorrow.

Pausing is an act of self‑respect.

It’s my choice to change, because this is my life.

Choosing to change gives me ownership of my path, and I am able to move forward.

I am choosing who I want to be. I am choosing how I want to feel. It’s time to pivot — and I can do it.

Please join me in on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 45 – Stop Saying It’s So Hard

Whether it’s day one of our loss or day one‑thousand‑and‑one, we have to stop repeating, “It’s hard.” Of course it is. Life is filled with hard things. Every one of us carries something heavy, something unfair, something that shakes us. And the more we repeat how hard it is, the heavier it becomes.

Here’s what I know.

Yes, I miss my husband—my partner, my friend. Missing him is natural. Wishing he would walk back into the room is natural. But none of that is in my control. What is in my control are the tools I choose to use to keep living. If I keep announcing how hard this is, people will hesitate to step into my circle. I can’t blame them; grief can feel like quicksand from the outside.

But I need a circle. Family, old friends, new friends—these are the people who help us rebuild. Family is important, whether by blood or by bond. After a loss, our hearts turn toward the people who know us, who have lived life beside us, who love us. They become the anchors that steady us through uncertainty, grief, and the life changes we never asked for.

Family and friends must be part of our journey. They need to understand that we still need to be needed, not left alone to drown in dysfunctional sadness. Too often people pull away because they don’t have the experience, the understanding, or the empathy to cope with someone else’s grief. But grief is universal—no one escapes it. We can help each other if we stay connected.

Friends shouldn’t distance themselves because we are no longer an “even number.” We are still worthy of inclusion, still part of the circle, still whole even if we now stand as one instead of two.

When we say, “it’s hard,” what we’re really saying is that we’re being stretched beyond our comfort zone. Hard began the moment life changed—without our permission. But life was changing long before our loved one got sick or died. Life is always changing. If we can observe that truth, maybe we can release the idea that life is “hard” and instead accept that life is simply unfolding.

Recently, I’ve been listening to my youngest son as he struggles with his grief. He feels himself changing—his priorities, his outlook, his sense of direction. He’s at an age and in a career where change is already pressing in, and losing his uncle and his dad within six months has taken a toll. What he needs is support: family, friends, and a new circle that will embrace him. It will take time. He will need to learn how to navigate these changes without being swallowed by the mantra, “It’s hard.”

What if, instead of repeating that phrase, we simply said, “This is where I am.” And then took the next step. And the next.

Learning resilience as we go, allowing ourselves to falter, and trusting that each step teaches us something about who we are becoming.

If you are reading this and have never experienced a significant loss, you may not fully understand. But someday you will—and when that day comes, you will wish you had understood sooner, for the sake of the person who was grieving right in front of you.

Please join me in on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 44 – My First Born

Fifty-one years ago, I gave birth to my firstborn. It should have been an uncomplicated delivery, but life had other plans. I went into labor the night before while watching The Waltons, and when we called my OB, he told us to head straight to Labor and Delivery—I was right on schedule.

The moment we arrived; they swept me away from my husband and began prepping me. In those days, it was standard to give the mother an enema—heaven forbid she expel anything while pushing. The excitement and anxiety of labor were overshadowed by the indignity of having an enema shoved up my backside and being sternly instructed to “hold it” until I was placed over the commode. As if my brain, my contractions, and my fear were going to cooperate. I was alone, and they wouldn’t let my husband in until I was “all settled.”

Once that ordeal was over, they began prepping me for an epidural. Still no husband. Still scared. The anesthesiologist explained the risks, including paralysis, and my mind spiraled into worst case scenarios. When the epidural was finally placed and working, they allowed my husband to return but warned us that the medication would slow my contractions. I was expected to deliver in the morning.

Around 7 a.m., my doctor examined me, frowned, and announced that things needed to “speed up.” They started Pitocin. An hour passed—no progress. Two hours—still nothing. I felt fine, couldn’t feel a single contraction, and was lying in bed watching TV while my husband snoozed.

By 2 p.m.—about 17 hours after labor began—the doctor decided it was time for the delivery room. He was prepared for a forceps birth, though I didn’t know then that he was rushing because he was leaving for vacation. Everything moved quickly. When he used the suction forceps, he gave me an episiotomy from hell—not a small cut, but a massive one to make room for the forceps and my son.

It all happened in a blur. Steve was held up for me to see, I heard his cry, and then he was whisked away while I was stitched and sent to recovery.

Afterward, I kept asking for my baby, but I was told I couldn’t hold him until I pooped. The epidural had worn off, the episiotomy hurt like hell, and the idea of eliminating anything was unbearable. I didn’t get to hold or feed my son for the first 24 hours. They brought him into my room so I could look at him, but I wasn’t allowed to touch him until I “proved” I had a bowel movement.

On the second day as I prepared for feeding time with my newborn the pediatrician came into my room with alarming news. He had examined my son and he had concerns. His soft spot was enlarged, and he wanted to rule out encephalitis and so he was transporting my baby to Children’s Hospital. He suggested I call my family and prepare them. My first call was to my husband who acted calm as if this was no big deal. I then called my mother and dad who informed me that ‘God would not give me more than I could handle”, not comforting at that time. My cousin Gloria called me and when I broke down on the phone she told me how much she loved me and she believed everything would be all right.

Within 24 hours, encephalitis was ruled out. But because Steve had been started on IV antibiotics, he needed to stay in the NICU for seven days. I was released so I could be with him, and at last, I could begin being a mother.

Fifty-one years later, that entire experience is still vivid—one of many milestones that shaped me. It was my first true lesson in strength. We only control what is within our power, and we don’t know what that power is until life tests us.

Today, my firstborn is half a century plus one year young, and I am deeply grateful to be his mother and his friend. Our road has been rocky at times, but we’ve learned how to smooth the ruts and travel together with loving kindness.

This past year, he has carried what some might call a burden—the deaths of his uncle and his stepfather, and the emotional weight that fell on me. He has handled it with grace, dignity, and compassion. I pray that I will not become the burden some might assume I am. I pray for his continued health, happiness, and evolution.

And I celebrate the strength that began the day he was born—his and mine, intertwined.

Please join me in on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 43 Missing In Action

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 42 – Stop the Intruding Thoughts

I’m torn about getting my hair cut — not a dramatic chop, just an inch or two. It’s taken me so long to grow it out, and the thought of trimming it brings up more anxiety than I expected. My hair is thick, heavy, and full, and I’m grateful to have such a strong mane at my age. The silver-grey is beautiful and natural, but I’m still growing out the old color underneath. Unless I start trimming those ends, I’ll keep seeing those stubborn orange tones that don’t feel like me anymore.

I started growing my hair out a couple of years ago because Rich loved long hair. Until last year, I was still coloring it and wearing it in its natural state — curls and frizz included. Once I stopped covering the grey, I began straightening it more often, and I fell in love with the sleekness. In the humid weather, I’ve been able to pull it back and off my neck, which has been a relief.

As much as I want to keep the length, I know I need a refresh — not a drastic change, just a new “do” that feels like me.

So today I’m going to see my favorite stylist, Karen. The first time she saw my hair was after a truly awful cut from someone else. I walked into her chair in tears and walked out smiling. She took something disastrous and made it acceptable, with a plan to improve it little by little. She worked her magic, and I’ve trusted her for over 15 years.

When I was younger, my mother used to tell me I looked better with short hair. In fact, when Rich met me, my hair was extremely short — I had just cut off my long hair into what some might call an old-fashioned pixie. But soon after we started dating, I grew it back. As it grew, I permed it (not knowing I had naturally curly hair) and wore it long and curly until after Alex was born.

For years, I bounced between very short cuts, medium bobs, and attempts to grow it out — only to chop it again. Karen has kept me centered over the past decade and a half, never letting me go too short and guiding me through each stage of growth. I’m nervous and excited to see what she’ll do today.

As a woman, I have a relationship with my hair. It’s one part of my appearance I can shape and express. It gives me style — except when it’s overdue for a restyle, like now. Hair identifies us, and it allows us to express ourselves through design:

Straightening it,
Perming it,
Coloring it,
Letting it go silver,
Cutting it short,
Growing it long — these choices feel like statements of identity.

Every choice becomes a statement of identity.

Hairstyles create memories. Looking back at them gives us a roadmap of who we were and how we’ve grown. I’m not entirely sure where I am today, but I do know I’m feeling a little grief about cutting some of my hair. Still, I need to lighten the burden it represents while holding on to what feels like me. It’s a fine line, but I’ll find my balance — hair grows back.

I’m fortunate. Some people don’t have the luxury of choice; sometimes cutting or shaving hair is medically necessary. I have the freedom to decide. Nothing is forcing me — this is something I’m choosing to do so I can keep moving forward. Even if losing a few inches makes me sad, I also know there will be relief and even gladness, because I’m steering my own ship.

Please join me in on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 41 – Hair Cut

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve sensed something shifting. Physically, I haven’t felt 100%, yet I’ve remained functional — just not at the pace I’m used to or prefer. Some might say this is expected: I lost my husband six months ago, and I turned seventy‑six four months ago. What else should I anticipate?

Logically, I understand that grief continues even when I’m smiling, laughing, and evolving into this next stage of life. But what I assumed grief would feel like is nothing like the descriptions written by others. I know we all grieve differently. I’ve watched my sister‑in‑law mourn the loss of her husband, my brother, with an intensity that is uniquely hers. Observing her has influenced me to choose a different path. I did not die when my brother and husband died. I was given life through their energy, and I have tried to honor that.

Yet even with their energy I have faltered and this morning I am looking at how my journey is affecting me.

When Joel died in September, I went straight into shock mode — then into auto‑pilot. My instinct was to help everyone else who was grieving. I stepped into the role I’ve always assumed was mine: the helper, the comforter, the stabilizer. Only now do I see that while it may have soothed others, it has quietly affected my health.

I repeated the same pattern when Rich died. I worried more about Alex and Steve than myself. And as I supported them, I also carried concern for my brother Gary’s health. I took on the internal responsibilities of all of it.

Internal responsibilities are the quiet, invisible commitments I carry inside myself — the ones that shape how I move through my days, how I respond to others, and how I care for my own well‑being. They are the “inner job description” I never applied for yet feel responsible to fulfill.

Thirteen years ago, when I lost my job and career, I clung to that inner job description so tightly that it pulled me into depression — something I’ve been treating ever since. I have an inner need to make life “good,” even though I know I only have control over certain things.

Control, I’ve learned, is a set of mental and emotional mechanisms we use to create stability. But we are not always in balance, and imbalance creates chaos — internally and externally. Much of my chaos comes from negative self‑talk. Being mindful of this helps me reduce the problems I actually can control.

I need to work on my relational control — accepting that it is not my responsibility to create resolution for others. I must practice empathy instead of over‑functioning. As I develop healthier tools, I can reduce the chaos I’ve been unintentionally creating, and in turn, protect my health.

This morning, I had an epiphany. No angels descended, and Richard did not appear with words of wisdom. The epiphany was simple. I woke with a migraine. I considered taking my prescribed medication, but it hasn’t been working well. Instead, I reached for a quick‑release Tylenol — just half a dose, because that has helped before. Within thirty minutes, my pain dropped from a ten to a two. It’s still achy, but I’m not suffering. My thinking is clearer, and I’m present.

The epiphany was this: make a change. Reach for another tool, another answer, another step forward. We often repeat the same actions because they’re familiar, even when they no longer lead us down the right path. Sometimes it’s time to detour.

At seventy‑six, I can still learn how to live in a more comfortable, healthier way. Breaking habitual routines isn’t easy, but when I do, I find relief — and relief makes it easier to move forward.

We need to support each other through our life journey. It’s not about fixing anyone. It’s about tending to our own health and gently guiding others when we can. As a guide, I can offer my resilience as an example, not a prescription. And I must remember evolving is my choice. Only I can take the step in the right direction.

Please join me in on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 39 – Feeling Something

We are all dependent on something, and that dependency shapes us in ways we don’t always recognize. Studies show it doesn’t matter whether our reliance is emotional, relational, financial, or habitual—each one leaves a fingerprint on us as we evolve.

When I began wearing hearing aids, I didn’t just become dependent on the devices themselves (nearly 24/7). I also became dependent on Rich, who became my second set of ears when my aids weren’t doing the job. I trusted him to keep me aware, steady, and safe. Even when he joked that my hearing aids were “worthless,” he was still my support system.

The day Rich could no longer be that second set of ears, a new fear settled in—the fear of being on the outside, unable to hear what was happening on the inside.

Like computers, hearing aids come in levels. Inexpensive devices simply amplify sound, which may or may not be clear or recognizable. More advanced aids offer settings, adjustments, and updates that can make a world of difference. Hearing aids are not one‑size‑fits‑all, despite what some manufacturers try to convince us.

I’ve worn hearing aids for almost 15 years. I’ve tried the cheap ones that offered no real help, and the moderate‑to‑expensive ones that provided meaningful adjustments. Sadly, my current set has been poor quality, and I’ve had to revert to older aids that are no longer adequate. It has disrupted my life—especially without my second set of ears named Rich.

I share this because I believe in being an open book. When we are honest, people understand us better. They become more aware. And sometimes, help arrives without us even having to ask.

I was scheduled to meet a new friend for lunch today, but honesty felt more important than pushing through discomfort. Lunch is postponed and will be rescheduled. For now, I’m best meeting one‑on‑one in the quiet of my home until my new aids arrive—hopefully soon.

Looking back, I now understand why Saturday’s gathering was so difficult. With a house full of guests, I struggled to hear. I felt like I was living inside a Charlie Brown cartoon—Wha‑wha‑wha—missing punchlines and conversations all day. I didn’t say anything. When everyone left, the quiet in the house was louder than the voices of eight women. That’s when I understood how my migraine developed and why it’s still lingering.

My brain is working overtime to hear and adjust, and it’s wearing me out. All I can do now is take things moment by moment, trusting that this will be fixed. I also know that I have only myself to depend on now; my second set of ears is listening from another place, offering comfort but not words.

Still, I trust Rich’s energy to see me through this. The sun will rise tomorrow, and so will I.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 38– When You are Dependent…

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

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 37– Stop Saying, “I Can’t”

Is it just me, or do you ever feel as if you’ve been pulled straight into a series—almost living inside it?

I’ve noticed that when I binge‑watch a show I really enjoy, I don’t just watch it…I inhabit it. I get swept up in the storyline, my emotions rising and falling with every twist. The characters’ lives become so vivid that, for a moment, I forget my own reality and drift into theirs.

Binge‑watching has been both a comfort and a complication for me. On one hand, it gives me a chance to unwind, escape, and see my own worries from a different angle—sometimes even shrinking them down to size, especially after an episode of the Housewives. On the other hand, I can get so absorbed that the boundary between their world and mine blurs.

Rich never quite understood my binge‑watching, although he had his own version with MeTV and all his beloved oldies. He had a routine—shows he watched every day, often in reruns—yet he’d still insist he had “never seen that one,” as if he needed permission to enjoy it again. He lived inside his shows while they were on, but once the credits rolled, he stepped right back into real life without carrying any of it with him.

I’m different. I carry the storyline with me. I let it travel alongside my own journey, sometimes stirring emotions that have nothing to do with where I am or where I’m going. It’s as if the stories I watch become temporary companions—shaping my mood, coloring my thoughts, and reminding me how deeply I feel things, even when the source is fictional.

Binge watching is todays pattern of streaming. Instead of waiting week to week for the next episode, you watch one roll into another. It’s like reading a good novel that you refuse to put down until you get to the end. This format actually creates momentum, immersing you emotionally into the story line slipping into the characters feeling what they are portraying as you walk their journey.

I now understand where this emotional energy is that I develop when I get caught up. I have a pause button, and I can get up and get a drink, go to the bathroom, or move the laundry from washer to dryer, but I have that need to get back and follow the yellow brick road I was on.

Binge‑watching can feel like an escape, but sometimes it becomes hard to escape from it. One-episode loops into the next, pulling you deeper into the storyline, and when it finally ends, exhaustion can settle in. Not just exhaustion—sometimes disappointment. A quiet, unsettling “now what?” that lingers after the credits roll.

The unhealthy side of binge‑watching can blur the line between fiction and reality. I’m usually good at recognizing the difference, but the emotional intensity is what temporarily spills into my life. I’ve let binge‑watching disturb my sleep, and at times it has become a way to avoid situations I’d rather not face.

Rich and I were different in how we watched. He enjoyed his shows in the moment, letting them fade as soon as they ended. I absorb the storylines. If I’m honest, even when we watched together, I found myself slipping into the narrative. I’m beginning to understand that I don’t just watch stories—I experience them. I feel them. I let them shape me, even if only for a little while.

As a child and pre‑teen, I remember reading a series of books about Jewish families. Their lives mirrored my own in so many ways. I found myself taking on the personas of the characters, imagining myself inside their homes, their rituals, their hopes. Reading gave me a window into the life I wanted and the life I eventually created. Sometimes the creation was flawed, but in retrospect, it carried me exactly where I needed to be—right here.

Now I’m learning to let my imagination and thoughts carry me into the real world, not away from it. I’m opening the curtain to see what’s right outside my window. I look beyond the familiar horizon and see the beauty waiting there—the mixture of what is real and what is possible. And I choose to take a step forward.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 36– My Day / Your Day

When Fridays Begin to Mean Something Again

I remember a time when TGIF carried weight — when Friday felt like a small celebration. But that hasn’t been true for me in a long while. For years, I worked Monday through Friday and often straight into Saturday and Sunday, juggling two, sometimes three jobs to make ends meet and save for a rainy day. Rich worked weekends too, so “Thank God it’s Friday” never really applied to our lives.

In recent years, neither of us officially worked weekends, yet we were out of practice when it came to enjoying time off. I used to think we “wasted” those days, but I’ve crossed that word out in my mind. We didn’t waste anything. We spent time together — quietly, simply — and I cherish that now. No planned excursions, no weekend getaways. Just Rich in his favorite recliner watching MeTV or scrolling through the History Channel, and me beside him, holding his hand. I miss that more than I can say.

Fridays haven’t held much significance for me since he passed. But when my sons visit, they arrive on Fridays, and suddenly the day feels special again. Last Friday was one of those days — lunch with my brother and cousins, and later an evening of reminiscing with family. It reminded me that meaning can return in small, unexpected ways.

And today is Friday. I’m preparing for company tomorrow — my new Mahjong friends will be gathering at my home, and I feel genuinely excited. This Friday matters. It’s the end of the week, and I’m smiling because I can feel myself evolving.

Mahjong and the Sound of Sparrows

Mahjong has woven itself back into my life. I grew up watching my mother play with her friends, the tiles clicking across the table like tiny sparrows — fitting, since the name itself comes from the Chinese word for sparrow. The game dates back to the mid‑19th century in China, and the National Mah Jongg League was founded in New York in 1937. Each year they publish a new card outlining the hands players aim for, and depending on the group, the game can be fiercely competitive or beautifully communal.

The women coming tomorrow fall into the latter category — conversation, laughter, noshes, and connection. That’s the part I love. Rich never enjoyed games; he preferred watching from the sidelines. I’m not overly competitive myself, though I do love to win. Mostly, I enjoy being part of the action. I played Mahjong over fifty years ago, then let it go dormant until recently. I’m rusty, I make mistakes, but I enjoy every moment of the camaraderie.

When Does It Get Easier?

This week I saw many posts from widows — and a few widowers — asking the same question: When does this get easier?

It gets easier as we grow. As we evolve. As we allow life to carry us gently into the next realm of ourselves.

I remember my first miscarriage. The grief felt unbearable, like I might not survive it. I couldn’t function; anger consumed me. But time carried me forward. The sadness still exists, but not with the same sharpness. I chose to heal. I chose to live for what is in front of me. The past remains part of me, but it no longer has to wound me.

I will always remember Richard. Forty‑two years of marriage is my history, my story. And these last six months of walking a new path are part of my story too. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting — it means placing things in perspective. On our 42nd anniversary this week, I found a simple, gentle way to honor it. I gave myself grace to feel my emotions in a healthy way.

If I Could Offer One Piece of Advice

Allow yourself to feel what you feel in the moment. Let your emotions speak to you rather than frighten you. Be aware of them and let that awareness become strength.

Healing happens from the inside out — quietly, steadily, and in your own time.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 35– End of the Week

The idea of “family” doesn’t always match the reality we end up living. I grew up in a family that bonded tightly. Even when tensions ran high or personalities clashed, we still showed up for one another. Joy and grief were shared spaces, and kindness was a rule we were expected to live by. My parents, my aunts and uncles, my grandparents — the leaders of our mispacha — held those values firmly in place.

But as they passed on, something shifted. The rules blurred. The kindness faded. The foundation I trusted began to fracture.

Since losing my brother in September, I haven’t been able to fully mourn, grieve, or move forward. The loss itself was devastating and unexpected, but the legal aftermath has turned everything into chaos. My heart stays with my niece — the daughter I never had — and her children, who are also suspended in their grief, unable to move forward. The law favors the spouse, and she has chosen to shut us out. Whether intentional or simply a disconnection, the result is the same: we are on the outside of a life we were once part of.

Every day I ask myself where the love and kindness went — the very values I was raised to uphold. And I wonder why this loss feels so much heavier because one person has taken control of what should have been shared.

Loss isn’t only about death. It’s the ending of relationships. It’s a shift in identity. It’s watching a dream turn into a nightmare. It’s being pushed out of your comfort zone and forced to find new tools for survival.

Loss is sadness, but in this case it’s also anger and confusion — trying to heal my own pain while watching others suffer beside me. Loss is the numbness I sometimes wish I could feel that a protective bandage that might soften the fatigue, the stress, and the sleepless nights.

Losing Joel has hurt more deeply than I ever imagined. It has thrust me into responsibilities I wasn’t prepared for and pathways I never expected to navigate. And before I could even begin to resolve that grief, it was compounded by losing Rich.

I keep moving forward, but the sadness remains. Each day I make a conscious effort not to let grief consume me. My love and admiration for my brother remind me that I don’t need to feel sorrow every moment to honor him. I can turn that sadness into something meaningful — something that reflects who we were together. I feel Rich’s energy urging me to be the best version of myself, and I feel my brother’s steady pull reminding me to stay true to who I am.

For these two remarkable men, I carry deep gratitude. Their love continues to guide me.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 33 – 42 Years Ago

My love for Richard is eternal.

We met at a wedding rehearsal, and for a brief moment I thought he was the Rabbi. You can imagine my mother’s delight — but of course, he wasn’t. That small misunderstanding became the first thread in a story I will cherish for the rest of my life: the love and life of Karen and Richard Hale.

There was a time, long before Rich, when I wondered if I would ever be lucky enough to find my soulmate. In high school I was every guy’s best friend — the girl who fixed them up with my girlfriends, watched them head off to dances and movies, and stayed home babysitting for the neighbors. The few dates I went on left me feeling like the ugly duckling, unsure if real love would ever find me.

I wasn’t expecting Rich. But when he appeared, something sparked. It wasn’t love at first sight — it was curiosity, attraction, friendship, and a slow-growing commitment. Over time, that commitment became the glue that held us together. Lust softened into love, and love deepened into a connection that shaped our lives.

Forty‑two years ago today, everything changed because we chose each other.

Across those decades we faced instability, uncertainty, and more potholes than I can count. Yet every time we stumbled, we made the conscious choice to stand back up, steady ourselves, and keep going. That same resilience has carried me through these past six months. Life is not easy — no book, no guide, no promise of perfection can protect us from the serpents that lurk even in Eden. But we do have the power to make choices that soften the obstacles in our path.

So today, on the 42nd anniversary of my marriage to Richard Alan Hale, I am still wearing my wedding rings. I am still celebrating this day. I am honoring the memory of my best buddy — today and every day. I cherish the time we had, and I am using the love and energy of those years to carry me forward.

Rich will always be with me because I choose to keep him close. He is in my thoughts every day, and that presence motivates me to live fully. Yes, I will always miss him. I will always wish he were beside me, holding my hand, kissing my lips, telling me he loves me. But my memories guide me, and they remind me that someday — in whatever way eternity allows — he will be by my side again, holding my hand, kissing my lips, and repeating with that familiar insistence:

“I love you.”

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 32 – It’s Almost 42 years

My love for Richard is eternal.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

https://newclevelandradio.net/dont-call-me-a-widow/

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 31 Thank You Anderson Cooper

Anderson Cooper hosts a podcast called All There Is, where he speaks openly about grief — both his own and that of the celebrities he interviews. I appreciate hearing public figures share their personal stories, because their experiences often mirror mine and yours. One thing Anderson said stayed with me: grief is a necessary part of life, and if we hold on to the moments that shaped our memories, the pain will ease. It won’t disappear — grief isn’t a disease we cure — but it can soften.

I’ve said many times that our choices determine the direction of our healing. We must steer the ship and dock it ourselves; no one can do that part for us. Yes, we can seek coaching, counseling, and medical support, but we must be willing participants in changing our own paradigm.

For generations, grief has been treated as something we “get over,” a temporary disruption we’re expected to tidy up and move past. But grief doesn’t behave that way. It isn’t linear, it isn’t a checklist, and it isn’t a series of predictable stages. Grief is a living experience that reshapes us from the inside out. Even before loss, we were evolving, changing, exploring new paths. Loss impacts that evolution, and we choose how we move forward.

Moving forward is not forgetting. It’s taking the positive energy of living and letting it work for us — and for those we meet along the way. Grief invites us to stop searching for “normal” and instead create a new rhythm that fits the life we’re living now. When we change the grief paradigm, we recognize that grief becomes part of our DNA, but it doesn’t have to control our breath or our future.

You don’t have to follow the grief journey others suggest — not your family, not your friends, not your community. You must do what works for you, and ensure that it truly works. Asking for help, guidance, and direction is not only acceptable, it’s often essential. And it’s equally important to allow others to grieve in their own way, without judgment.

Do not allow grief to stop you. The person you loved — your spouse, your partner, your companion — would never want your life to end with their absence. Live for them. Live for you. Live fully.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

https://newclevelandradio.net/dont-call-me-a-widow/

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 30 Monday, a new day

Things really do look different the next day — sometimes better, sometimes simply shifted. You all know how much I struggle with “Good‑bye Sundays” when my boys head back to their own lives, but I’m beginning to believe that the sharpness of that pain softens as time moves forward.

Yesterday I waited for the familiar intensity, the ache that usually pushes me out of the house, onto the phone, into distraction. And while I did a little of that, it was minimal. I just lived. I breathed. I moved through the day doing what I needed and what I wanted. I didn’t run from myself, and this morning I realized something important: that steadiness brought me comfort. I’m OK.

We all ask, When will life feel normal again? But I’m beginning to question whether I even know what I expect “normal” to be. My life has never matched any traditional definition of normal, and maybe that’s because normal itself is an illusion — a standard built on the idea of perfection, and perfection doesn’t exist.

Even in the Garden of Eden, described as flawless, there was an ugly serpent capable of disrupting everything. We create our own serpents too — the negative thoughts, the fears, the doubts — and they stir chaos in our minds. Each of us must choose what voice to listen to and which ones to release so we can live fully.

Normal is one of those words that pretends to be solid but melts the moment you try to hold it. Through my writing, coaching, and grief work, I’ve come to understand that normal isn’t universal. It’s a rhythm we create, and it changes every time our life does.

Normal can be a pattern that brings comfort, but when life shifts — especially after loss — those old patterns may no longer soothe us. That’s when we’re invited to step out of the familiar and create a new form of well‑being.

When life changes, our nervous system reacts, often before our mind can make sense of anything. Shock steps in as protection. It shields us from the full weight of emotion until we are physically and spiritually able to cope. Shock is one of humanity’s oldest survival tools. It isn’t denial. It isn’t avoidance. It’s a temporary shelter that buys us time to repair.

But shock doesn’t last forever. It softens. It loosens. It allows emotion to come through in manageable pieces. Grief doesn’t disappear — it becomes part of our DNA — but it doesn’t have to control our breath or our life.

We get to choose when to emerge. And we must remember that we are not the only ones grieving. Too often we forget that others carry their own unseen burdens. When we choose kindness toward ourselves, we naturally extend it to others, helping all of us live fuller, richer lives.

Stop expecting others to understand your loss. Your relationship, your history, your routines, your dreams — these are yours alone. Your children, your family, your friends have their own memories, and they may not align with yours. Some will empathize. Some will turn away because they don’t know how to hold the weight you’re carrying.

We cannot expect others to give us what we want or need. We must follow our own journey and create healing from within.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

https://newclevelandradio.net/dont-call-me-a-widow/

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 29

Sunday

It’s a new week, almost mid-month, and summer seems to be slipping by faster than I’d like. I’m trying to soak in every bit of it, knowing winter is never my season. I don’t quite hibernate, but I sometimes wish I could. Still, that isn’t living—and I am determined to live.

For the past ten days, I’ve shared space with Alex while he spent his vacation here at home. Together we’ve purged, saved, and restored pieces of our lives, all while sharing memories and thoughts of Rich. Healing is happening, even with the moments of angst and tears that still rise up without warning.

Grief isn’t linear, nor does it look the same for everyone. What I’m learning is how essential it is to honor my own needs while also respecting the needs of those around me. I’ve felt such peace and love allowing both Steve and Alex to walk beside me. And as I mourn Rich, my niece Rachael has been my steady companion—both of us still grieving her father, my brother Joel. Between us, we’re keeping him close, holding onto the good memories and even the complicated ones, letting them help us heal.

As I continue this series, I’m looking forward to what lies ahead. Making and sustaining new friendships matters, just as much as nurturing the relationships I’ve carried through the years. Each day feels like an adventure, offering me purpose.

Last week in Detroit, Alex and I had dinner with Dennis, a friend from my Bagley Elementary days. He’s faced his share of health challenges, and after nearly four years apart, I felt a jolt seeing him. But once we settled into conversation, he was still the same Dennis I remembered. The physical changes faded, and I found myself relishing our time together—especially watching the connection he formed with Alex. Get the two of them talking sports or politics and they’re instantly in sync.

I had hoped to see my girlfriend Cheryl, but a family issue forced us to postpone. We did talk, though, and I realized I need to commit to more phone conversations with her. Some friendships deserve tending even when schedules get in the way.

Spending time with my brother, cousins, niece, and nephew filled a part of me that has felt so empty. It didn’t replace Rich—nothing will—but it helped soften the pit in my stomach that grief keeps trying to carve out. I know I can’t let that hollow feeling gnaw at me forever. I need to find the remedy before it makes me ill, and I am working on it.

In a few hours, Alex will pack up and head back to Columbus. His life is there, and he needs to keep growing and nurturing himself. He’ll be celebrating one year with his company and looking forward to continuing his work at OSU. I’m proud of him.

My own week is taking shape too. It’s a light schedule, but I have a few recordings planned, and next Saturday I’m hosting a group of new friends for Mahjong. My mother would be keveling.

Creating new friendships truly improves our health and longevity. Social connection lowers the risk of depression, high blood pressure, and cognitive decline. A core group of friends helps us cope with hard times—whether it’s the illness or death of a spouse, our own health challenges, or major life changes. Friends buffer stress, and through community, they bolster recovery.

When we find people to socialize with, they lift our mood, ease our anxiety, and help us build resilience. They give us purpose. They remind us we matter. And it’s never about the number of friends—it’s about the quality of the connection.

As we age, friendships across generations become especially meaningful. They create a tapestry of life—rich, textured, and full of perspective. Older friends may mentor us, and we may mentor those younger than us. Through wisdom, humor, and our shared love of humanity, we find ourselves again and again.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

https://newclevelandradio.net/dont-call-me-a-widow/

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 28

Home

The past two days were spent in Michigan, a place woven into the fabric of my life. For decades, Rich and I made that trip several times a year—always a weekend, always with purpose—until my mother’s passing in 2016. After that, visits became tied to work or special occasions, like my elementary school reunion. This time, though, the reason was simple and deeply important: my brother Gary has moved back from the West Coast, and I needed to be with him. Our time together was exactly what my heart needed.

If you follow my blogs, you know we lost our brother Joel last September. His passing has drawn Gary and me even closer, and now that he’s only hours away, being with him feels both necessary and healing. We shared lunch with two of our cousins, Anne and Kayla, and the conversation naturally drifted into stories—some joyful, some bittersweet—that reminded us of the bonds that shaped our childhoods and still hold us together.

Later that evening, more cousins gathered at Gary’s new apartment. It was simple, unplanned, and special. Having lived in the Cleveland area for 44 years—with only a small circle of family on Rich’s side—being surrounded by my Detroit family again stirred memories of my parents, who were always the center of our lively, vocal clan. The familiar energy of family—the laughter, the noise, the shared history—was overwhelming in the best possible way.

This little trip arrived at a tender moment. Wednesday marks what would have been our 42nd wedding anniversary. Although Rich died just short of that milestone, nothing diminishes the meaning of that day. July 15, 1984—before family and friends—we said, “I do,” and we lived those vows fully. “We Did,” and that truth remains.

Our years together were beautiful, but not without challenges. We navigated life’s twists with love, companionship, and a shared resilience that still lives within me. Rich’s presence continues to shape my days, and he is remembered by everyone whose life he touched during his 75 years.

Just as I reconnected with family this week, Alex and I spent time remembering the parts of Rich that made us laugh, smile, and feel grounded. I’m learning to let those memories warm the cold corners of my heart—the lonely spaces created when he died. I want those thoughts to honor him while helping me move forward and live fully. I will continue to wear my wedding rings; they are part of who I am, part of the woman Rich chose, part of the vows he kept.

On Wednesday, I will honor Rich and wish us a Happy Anniversary. The happiness lies in the love we shared, the life we built, and the family and friends who continue to walk alongside me.

I don’t have to walk this path alone. You can join me by sharing your journey too. Life is meant to be lived, and I intend to keep living mine with openness, gratitude, and love.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

https://newclevelandradio.net/dont-call-me-a-widow/

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 27

Tripping

I woke up this morning feeling like I’m tripping. No, I haven’t taken anything psychedelic, but my body feels queasy and my mind strangely disconnected. It’s as if I’m moving in slow motion — and what surprises me is that I’m actually okay with it. That’s not my usual rhythm. Normally I’m moving a mile a minute, or at the very least my brain is in overdrive. My instinct is always to figure things out, correct them, and move on. But today my mind is telling me something different: ride the wave. Maybe this is a reset, and maybe my body is finally insisting that I listen.

Ever since I completed my life‑coaching certifications over five years ago, I’ve been coaching myself through my own experiences — observing, adjusting, and asking the all‑time question: How is that working for me? What I’m sensing this morning is that this odd, trippy feeling is actually working for me. It’s nudging me to go with the flow. It’s giving me space to simply be — something I’ve spent most of my life trying to get comfortable with.

This experience is offering clarity: I need to nurture myself.

I talk about self‑care often, and I do practice it, but I still carry old beliefs that self‑care is selfish. Those old voices can be destructive. Yet this strange feeling today is helping wash some of those voices away.

The need‑to‑know part of me went searching for answers. What I learned is that it’s not unusual for the world to feel tilted. It’s the brain’s way of protecting itself from emotional overload — something I’ve been living with:

Sleep deprivation (waking several times a night and rising at dawn)
Emotional strain (noticing aches and pains)
Behavioral shifts (wanting to cry or even scream without knowing why)
Physical depletion (my nightly 30–40 minute bike ride has dropped to 15–20 minutes)
Constant processing (my own thoughts and the emotional weight of others)

I’m approaching the six‑month mark, and studies show this is a time when grief often shifts. Shock wears off. Reality settles deeper. The body reacts in new ways. Feeling “off” can be part of that transition. Even if it’s normal, it doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with it — but recognizing it means I’m working through it. Awareness matters. Creating tools matters. Staying on pace with becoming the best version of myself matters. I am responsible for me. I’m not tripping — I’m grieving, and sometimes the ground beneath my feet is shaky.

As I continue down this path, I hope to be a resource for you as well as for myself. Even with this uneven feeling clouding my brain, I am determined to be okay. I can be, and so can you — but we have to make the effort. Nothing changes if we don’t step onto the train to tomorrow. Your past will come with you; your spouse doesn’t disappear. The future will look different and strange at first, but that’s what happens when we choose to live forward.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

https://newclevelandradio.net/dont-call-me-a-widow/

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 26

Feeling Confused

No, I am not talking Grief Fog I am referring to how I am processing life and on one hand I think I am healing well and my resilience is superb, and yet physically I am drained emotionally.

Having my youngest son spend his vacation here is nice but it’s like old times when he still lived at home 5 years ago. The majority of his day he isolates himself in his room when he is here. It’s not that I expect to spend time with him, although we have spent dinner time together and he has helped me with some of the purging, but this is vacation and he has needed the down time, so I am walking on egg shells.

I have spent the last five months learning how to live and navigate on my own, which means I come and go and do things when I choose, and not that waiting for him to be available is a bad thing, it’s just something to deal with, and I don’t want to deal. In some manner I have chosen to be selfish, no, self-aware, of what I need.

Rich and I may not have had the perfect life, but we had love which made it exceptional. However, I always felt it was my responsibility to keep the home fires burning and I spent 42 years ensuring our happiness. (That’s not to say Rich didn’t do his part, he did but marriage is not a 50/50.) Now it’s time I give myself 100% and just as I was acclimating to this realization I am struggling with not being alone.

You know how many of us (widows) wish we could bring our husbands back, if I could I would be glad to share and give more to the relationship but if I can’t have my buddy I’d rather be alone.

I am not saying I want to be lonely because I do enjoy visits from sons and having my friends to fill the void and create new memories, but I need to find my balance.

It’s all in my mindset and it’s something I struggle with and have my whole life. It’s about not being in the moment but worrying about what will happen next. I believe I learned this process from my mother. When I would go to Michigan to visit her as she greeted me at the open door she always asked how long I would be staying, she was already acknowledging that I was going away. During these visits she would repeatedly voice how she would miss me when I left…I don’t think we had much time to appreciate the time I was there.

Having my son here on vacation I am trying to be mindful of what we both need and to live my life as I need, that includes working and maintaining things here in the home. Alex is not a child who needs mom to do anything, and it is important for me to remember that and to allow myself the ability to be me, not mom.

This transition from being a wife is difficult, initially I was putting my focus on my sons, both independently working and living on their own, and in turn they were focusing on me (they are not my protectors). It takes time to figure out our roles in this new scenario and understanding the difference of supporting and loving one another from responsibility.

My key personality my entire life has been to be a pleaser, and I will admit I was not always happy with myself attempting to please others while displeasing myself. Walking through life smiling when you feel like crying is not the life I want to continue to follow. So, with the passing of Richard, I capsulated his energy and I am doing my best to live life fully. Appreciating my family, warts and all, knowing that love and kindness is part of who we are. Reaching out and making new friends creating a community that I can be proud of. Accepting that perfection is just a word, it’s not a destination and each step forward brings me to a place I need to be.

No one needs to walk alone; it’s time to reach out…

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

https://newclevelandradio.net/dont-call-me-a-widow/

Don’t Call me a Widow Part 26a – “My Coaching Response”

I’m healing well—and I’m tired.

Those two truths can coexist. I’ve built a new rhythm for yourself: independence, self‑direction, quiet, movement, work, home, community. You’ve learned how to navigate your days without waiting for someone else’s needs to set the pace. That’s real growth.

And then my son arrives—someone I love deeply someone who brings comfort and familiarity—and suddenly the air in the house changes. Not because he’s doing anything wrong. Not because I’m doing anything wrong. But because his presence shifts the balance I’ve worked so hard to establish.

My body feels the shift before my mind does. That’s why I’m drained.

I’m not walking on eggshells with him—I’m walking on eggshells with my old self.

The “pleaser.” The caretaker. The woman who spent 42 years tending the home fires. The mother who used to adjust her pace to everyone else’s needs.

I’ve spent months unlearning that. And now I’m being asked—by circumstance, not by my sons—to revisit it.

No wonder I feel conflicted.

I’m not selfish. I’m self-aware.

I said it perfectly.

I’m choosing to honor what I need.

I’m choosing to live my life even while he’s visiting.

I’m choosing not to slip back into the role of “mom-as-responsibility.”

That’s healthy. That’s growth. That’s the new chapter I’ve been building.

And my son doesn’t need me to perform my old role. He’s not asking for it. He’s simply decompressing, being himself, taking his own vacation. We are both learning how to coexist in this new dynamic.

My mother taught me to anticipate loss instead of savor presence.

This is a powerful insight.

She greeted me with the question, “How long are you staying?” She lived the visit as a countdown. She mourned my departure before I even unpacked my suitcase.

I absorbed that pattern. I learned to live in the future instead of the moment.

And now I’m consciously breaking that cycle.

That’s not easy work. It’s lifelong work. (Give me 20 more years!)

I’m redefining every relationship I have—including the one with myself.

I’m no longer a wife.

My sons are no longer children.

My sons are not my protectors.

I am not their responsibility.

We are learning how to love each other without obligation.

That’s a major transition—one most people never articulate – and I must.

I’m done pleasing at the expense of myself.

I’ve spent a lifetime smiling through discomfort, smoothing edges, carrying emotional weight that wasn’t mine. I don’t want that life anymore.

Richard’s passing didn’t just break my heart—it handed me a new kind of energy. A mandate to live fully. A reminder that perfection isn’t the goal; presence is.

I’m building a community. I’m honoring my family—warts and all.

I’m allowing myself to be human, not heroic.

I’m learning to walk forward without pretending that I don’t feel the ache.

That’s courage. (Just like the Lion in the Wizard of Oz, I have developed courage.)

I don’t need to walk alone—but I do need to walk as myself.

That’s the balance I’m finding.

Not isolation. Not dependence. Not caretaking. Not pleasing.

Just connection—without losing me in the process.

I’m doing it. Even if it feels messy. Even if it feels tiring. Even if it feels unfamiliar.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

https://newclevelandradio.net/dont-call-me-a-widow/

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 25

Feeling Confused

I’m taking a pause from the purging — not just the physical clearing, but the emotional unraveling that’s been woven into these past six months. I’m accepting my current status quo, recognizing that some changes were created by me and others were created for me. Since January, I’ve connected and reconnected with family and friends, and I’ve also stepped back where I needed space. Grief has a way of revealing who truly matters and what living fully will require. I’m choosing to surround myself with kindness.

This weekend, I realized that the purging wasn’t only about “stuff.” It included long‑held thoughts and beliefs that were keeping me from being true to myself. As these old ideas surface, I know I need to sort through them carefully and decide what no longer has value in the life I’m building.

I’ve been fortunate to meet new friends who are adding something meaningful to my days, and I’m looking forward to growing those relationships. But first, I need to sift through the emotions that are intensifying at this six‑month mark.

Depending on which philosophy you follow, grief has patterns. The well‑known Kübler‑Ross stages — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance — describe common reactions, but they’re not linear or universal. They’re descriptive, not prescriptive. Grief also comes in waves, rising and falling without warning. Sadness, anger, relief, guilt, numbness, confusion — they all move through me, sometimes all in one day. This is exactly where I am right now.

And when thoughts slip away, concentration falters, and conversations start sounding like the muted “wah‑wah” of a Charlie Brown adult, that’s grief fog. It’s real, and it happens.

Grief affects the body as much as the mind. Weight changes, headaches, allergies, digestion issues, sleep disruption — even heart complications. Broken heart syndrome is a real condition. A surge of stress hormones, especially adrenaline, can temporarily disrupt the heart’s ability to pump. Mayo Clinic explains that these hormones can tighten the arteries or “stun” the heart muscle, causing sudden dysfunction.

As I often remind my life‑coaching clients:

Mindfulness matters.
Being thoughtful isn’t being judgmental — it’s being aware.
Mindfulness helps us function at our best when grief stirs our emotions.
Allowing grief to ebb and flow is necessary and healthy.
Seeking support is essential, and not all support is equal. Choose wisely.

Join me on this journey — through the clearing, the reconnecting, the waves, and the rebuilding — as I learn to live fully in the life that’s unfolding.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

https://newclevelandradio.net/dont-call-me-a-widow/

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 24

Finding My Balance in the Midst of Change

And when thoughts slip away, concentration falters, and conversations start sounding like the muted “wah‑wah” of a Charlie Brown adult, that’s grief fog. It’s real, and it happens.

As I often remind my life‑coaching clients:

Mindfulness matters.
Being thoughtful isn’t being judgmental — it’s being aware.
Mindfulness helps us function at our best when grief stirs our emotions.
Allowing grief to ebb and flow is necessary and healthy.
Seeking support is essential, and not all support is equal. Choose wisely.

Join me on this journey — through the clearing, the reconnecting, the waves, and the rebuilding — as I learn to live fully in the life that’s unfolding.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 23

When Sadness Hits

It comes when I least expect it, but something is happening that is causing me to feel sad. I know I have not given myself the opportunity to process my losses this past year. It really began in December 2024 when Rich lost his job. He went in to work one day felling confident and by the time 5 p.m. rolled around he was clearing out his desk just days before Christmas. Unexpected as it was and coming at holiday time took a toll on both of us.

Days later, actually on Christmas Eve as I was running around preparing something special for dinner, I tripped and fell in the house breaking my arm and additional damaged to my rotator cuff. Within a week I was having surgery and spending the holidays in pain and recovery.

Just as I thought I was recovering from the losses above, our son Alex started a job transition that needed our support both financially and emotionally, so as parents we gave it our all, and I must say it took its toll.

By August Alex was settled and life was turning around, even Rich was finding occasional work. It was at this time Rich had a medical procedure which was designed to provided him more quality of life from radiation remnants of his prostate cancer treatment. Although the procedure went as designed it did not work in his favor despite months of medical appointments to get the device to work. While taking care of Rich I had another home accident falling and breaking my wrist…

As Rich started to recuperate and I became a one-handed care giver my brother died suddenly leaving us feeling the void that was created. They say things come in threes, but we were beyond that number and trying to just survive one more glitch in life.

We struggled through the holiday only to face the new year with Rich still not feeling as well as he would have liked. His medical visits reassured him he was doing OK until he wasn’t.

He first claimed a sore throat and hours later identified weakness in his legs, within 24 hours I was driving him to the ER not knowing how serious this could be. He was diagnosed with COVID and since fully vaccinated we were assured he just needed the anti-viral drug and rest. However, with 24 hours he had full blown pneumonia and was too weak to cough and clear his lungs.

With me at his side he started to choke, and the nurses came in and aspirated him – but within seconds he went into cardia arrest – I was at the foot of his bed, and I saw the shock on his face in his bulging eyes, I screamed, and they started working on him and pulling me out of the room.

Hours later they settled him in ICU in a coma and all I could do was pray and wish for his recovery … however he never would have recovered fully he was without oxygen too long.

I know I initially walked and lived in shock.

I became stoic because I was afraid to cry, crying wasn’t going to bring him back or make me any better, so I put my energy into recovery and called upon his energy (love) to keep me on the path.

But now almost 6 months later I am feeling sad, I am struggling with my emotions, I want to be happy, but I am hurting and I don’t want to hurt.

However, I know this is how grief works, it almost like grief takes a holiday and we think we have succeeded but something triggers it again and it shows up. This time I am trying to address it, not just live it. I am allowing the hurt to produce feelings that I can identify with and create tools to work through the emotional pain.

I am allowing myself to be more vulnerable in my pain and reach for the assistance and guidance of others.

It’s time to let the tears come with no explanation or judgment.

Join me on my journey

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 22

Vacation?

It’s not my vacation but having my son spend his vacation here feels like a small break from my own routine. And yet, routine is what makes me feel steady and whole, so stepping away from it happens in gentle, manageable shifts.

I am noticing the shift in rhythm with Alex home — not a full break from routine, but a loosening of the edges. For me routine isn’t confinement, it’s scaffolding. It’s the thing that has always given me shape, direction, and a sense of “I know where I’m going next.” Even as a kid, even when I didn’t want to go, having a place to be meant I had a purpose to fulfill. That thread has run through my entire life.

Routine has always given me purpose. Even as a young child—kicking and screaming in my head on the way to school—having somewhere to be and something expected of me created a sense of direction. It gave me a reason to show up, to accomplish, to grow. Over the years, school became work, and work expanded into caring for my husband and children. Each role brought challenges, and each challenge became an opportunity to learn, adapt, and strengthen.

So, while Alex enjoys his vacation, I’m allowing myself a little time away from “work” too. On his first day home, I claimed some guilt‑free “me time,” binge‑watching Netflix without feeling the need to jump up and be productive. We ran a few errands together and later headed to the Guardians game. If you know Cleveland baseball—and Cleveland weather—you won’t be surprised that a rain delay sent us home early, just before another walk‑off win. Getting soaked didn’t dampen our spirits, only our clothes.

Today was another slow, easy day until this evening, when we tackled some purging in the garage. Alex uncovered pieces of his childhood and items that belonged to Rich. Even though he chose to donate or toss much of what we found, the act of touching those memories, of holding pieces of Rich’s life in our hands, brought a quiet comfort. The memories were happy ones, and the evening offered both of us a bit of healing we didn’t realize we still needed.

Tomorrow Alex will spend the day with a friend at the Guardians game. Anyone who knows him knows how deeply that team is woven into his heart. He learned to love baseball sitting beside his dad when he was just two years old. For years he insisted the Orioles were the “Oreos,” and honestly, who could blame a toddler for that.

Because this is Alex’s vacation, I’m giving him the space to enjoy it fully. He loves his job, so it’s not about escaping work—it’s simply about stepping away long enough to breathe. And this year, coming home seems to be exactly what both of us needed.

The landscape of the house feels different with him here. I’m grateful for the company, for the way his presence fills the quiet places. But I’m also mindful not to depend on it, knowing the familiar ache will return when his vacation ends. I’ve learned to prepare for the emotional rollercoaster that comes after my boys leave. Adjusting each time isn’t easy, but life is full of difficult moments—and I’ve learned I can meet them, move through them, and come out whole.

Join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 21

Ask Yourself

I woke up this morning and, before my feet even touched the floor, I made a decision. I decided that today I would not ask “why me” but instead ask “what now.” That small shift in wording has become one of the most powerful tools in my toolbox since Rich died.

For a long time, I didn’t realize how much power lived inside a single word. “Why” keeps us looking backward, circling the same unanswerable question like a dog chasing its tail. “What” moves us forward. It opens a door instead of staring at a wall. I didn’t learn this overnight, and some mornings I still wake up and reach for “why” out of habit. But I catch myself faster now, and that’s growth.

Rich used to tease me and say I overthought everything — “Karen, just make the decision and go,” he’d say, usually about something as simple as which restaurant to pick for dinner. I’d laugh it off, but the truth is, he wasn’t wrong. He moved through life with a certainty I envied, and now that he’s gone, I find myself borrowing his voice in my head when I’m stuck. I hear him nudging me: just make the decision and go. So, some days, that’s exactly what I do — for him, and for myself.

I want to talk for a moment about legacy, because it’s been on my mind. Legacy isn’t only the memories we keep — it’s the way we let the people we loved continue to shape how we move through the world. Rich’s boldness, his humor, his refusal to sit still — those didn’t die with him. They live in me now, whether I asked for them or not. Every time I choose courage over comfort, I am carrying him forward. That is a kind of immortality no headstone can offer.

I heard a phrase recently that stopped me in my tracks: “Grief is love with nowhere to go.” I don’t fully agree with the “nowhere” part anymore. I think grief is love that has to find a new place to go — into how we live, who we help, what we create, who we become. The love doesn’t disappear. It just changes address.

So here is my ask of you today, my friend: pick one small thing that scares you a little and do it this week. Not because it will fix anything. Not because it will erase the missing. But because you are still here, and being here is not something to waste.

Join me on this journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call me a Widow – Part 20

Preparing

A year ago, life felt completely topsy‑turvy. Alex was moving from one city to another, shedding a toxic work environment, and stepping toward what would become one of the biggest and best decisions of his career. Back then, we didn’t know if Columbus—OSU—would be his landing place, but we crossed every finger and toe we had.

By August, the dust settled. The offer was real, the move was happening, and we helped Alex get settled just a few hours away. I’m not a religious person, but I do believe something larger than us was nudging things into place, bringing our family closer in a way we didn’t even know we needed. Rich was so looking forward to having Alex nearby, imagining the visits, the conversations, the simple joy of proximity.

He didn’t get the chance to experience that closeness, and that will always sting. But the nearness is proving to be a healing force for Alex and for me. Knowing we’re only two hours apart has given us a kind of emotional scaffolding—support we’ve leaned on as we navigate this new chapter without Rich’s physical presence.

As Alex prepares for his vacation this year, he’s coming home to Cleveland to spend time with me, reconnect with friends, and take some well‑earned R&R. After break, he’ll head back to campus as they gear up for another huge sports season—Buckeye Football included, of course.

I have no expectations for his visit. Preparation is minimal. What he needs most is space to relax, recharge, and simply be. Our home—and I—are just vessels helping steady the ship while he rests. My payment will come in the form of hugs from my son, and that is more than enough.

As a widow—yes, that detested term—I’ve learned how to navigate my daily life with a kind of mindful steadiness. I know I will have periods of loneliness, and I’ve learned to recognize them as they arrive. Instead of letting them swallow me, I pause, breathe, and become more intentional about how I respond to the emotions they trigger.

As a widow, I can spend my days in mournful grief, or I can turn my losses into a more meaningful journey. I may feel as if I’ve lost a limb, but that doesn’t mean I cannot strengthen the limbs I still have. I don’t have any more power than anyone else, but I am choosing to live.

Choose. Explore. Breathe. Reach out. These are the small, steady actions that keep me moving forward. What about YOU?

Join me on this journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call me a Widow – Part 18

Finding Connection and Forward Motion — One Trivia Night at a Time

Who would have imagined that on Monday evenings I’d be sitting with a group of eight to twelve people playing Trivia? If you know me, you know I’m not a memorizer. What I retain comes from doing — living, practicing, experiencing. So, in a game built on random facts, I often feel like my mind is an empty shelf.

But one of the group members encouraged me to treat Trivia night as a chance to make friends and learn. And the funny thing is… I’m doing both. This is not an activity Rich would have joined me in; games were never his thing. Still, I believe he’d be proud that I’ve found something that helps me live more fully.

This journey — this series of steps I’m taking — is teaching me how to navigate life in a new way. As widows, we may walk a similar road, but each of us moves at our own pace. Some crawl, some walk, some skip, some run. And some sit quietly, waiting for the moment when moving forward feels possible. (We have to make it possible.)

Eventually, though, for our mental and physical well‑being, we must place one foot in front of the other. We need time to mourn, but we also need time to heal. Grief will return again and again, but when we recognize it, we can soothe our wounds with the tools we’ve created — tools that ease the pain rather than deepen it.

Trivia nights may seem small, but they are part of my forward motion. They remind me that connection, learning, and even a little laughter can coexist with grief. They remind me that healing often begins in unexpected places — around a table, with new faces, answering questions I may or may not know, but showing up anyway.

What “Showing Up” Really Means

The term showing up gets used often, but what we truly mean goes much deeper than simply being present.

Showing up is awareness — choosing mindfulness, honesty, and vulnerability in the moment.
Showing up is participating even when confidence is low or preparation is imperfect. (Like walking into Trivia on Monday nights and letting yourself be part of something new.)
Showing up is engaging with people and allowing activities to bridge the gap between where we’ve been and where we’re going.
Showing up is choosing ourselves — giving growth and healing permission to take shape.
Showing up is honoring the moment and accepting that this is the time to be here.
Showing up is being fully present, with 100% awareness, even when it feels uncomfortable.

Showing up is how we stay connected to our own life.

Why Change Feels So Difficult — Even When We Know We Need It

Change is not a single decision; it’s a layered process. It asks us to understand our emotions, reshape our identity, and still feel safe while doing so.

Change disrupts our comfort zone, even when the comfort isn’t healthy.
Change often requires letting go — not forgetting but releasing our grip.
Change takes time. We cannot expect immediate results; we must find the process that fits who we are.
Change is not linear. It twists, pauses, and surprises us.
Change can make us feel unfamiliar to ourselves as old patterns fade and new ones emerge.

And yet, change is how we grow. It allows us to use our challenges as stepping stones toward the next version of ourselves — stronger, softer, wiser, and more aligned with the life we want.

Join me on this journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call me a Widow Part 17

Migraine or Not? Learning to Listen to My Body

The last couple of weeks have been a maze of headache pain. Some mornings I wake up already knowing the culprit — the way I slept, the angle of my neck, the tension that builds into that familiar tightness and throbbing. When I catch it early and use my TENS unit along with medication, I can usually get ahead of it. But sometimes my mind drifts into that old pattern of “let’s ride this out,” and that isn’t always the wisest choice.

After decades of medication, I’m trying to find relief as naturally as possible. And sometimes, yes, it works. As a migraine
survivor — a term I’m claiming for myself — I’m always searching for tools and practices that bring comfort without relying on anything or anyone. But pain has a strange way of playing tricks on the brain. Thoughts get tangled, anxiety rises, and the intensity can spike before it finally begins to settle.

We each have our own relationship with
pain. Once we learn the language of our body, we gain a measure of control.
I’ve accepted that migraines are part of my chemistry. Acceptance doesn’t mean
surrendering to the discomfort or confusion they bring. It means understanding
what I can do to reduce the pain, eliminate it when possible, or ride it out
with intention.

What I do for migraine pain mirrors how I live my life — and how I guide others as a Life Coach. Comfort isn’t a straight line. To reach it, we often walk through obstacles that challenge us. But through searching, learning, and adjusting, we carve out smoother pathways.

These last five months since Rich’s
passing have forced me to walk a new trail. I’ve had to make choices, including
taking better care of myself. That care looks like listening to my body,
resting when I need to, nourishing myself, and reducing anxiety wherever I can.

Rest, for me, means stopping. Feeling
myself in the moment. Breathing slowly. Letting the toxins, the confusion, the
intrusive thoughts release. Letting go of anything that doesn’t serve me right
now.

Mindfulness is a practice — ongoing, imperfect, and deeply human. It takes patience and repetition, but once it becomes part of your rhythm, it creates a sense of lightness, even happiness. Mindfulness trains your body, your emotions, and your environment to exist without judgment. When you notice your thoughts, you get to choose which ones support you and which ones don’t. When you feel your breath, your neck, your shoulders, your back, you gain the ability to adjust.

Emotions will shift — from happy to sad,
from calm to overwhelmed — and that’s okay. Mindfulness helps you understand
those shifts and work with them instead of against them. Life isn’t a perfect
system. But we can build a more comfortable path, one with fewer potholes to
fall into.

Living with awareness and acceptance —
not perfection, not silence — is how we keep moving. It’s how we stay present.
It’s how we live.

Join me on this journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me Widow – Part 16

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

Loose Ends

Letting Go! Letting go of “things” is never simple. This morning I read a post from a newly widowed woman who had packed up her husband’s clothes, only to tuck the boxes into the back of the closet because she wasn’t ready to let them go. I understand that completely. Purging isn’t easy unless you’re truly ready.

For nearly 42 years — through three moves and several rounds of downsizing — I wanted to clear out so many of the things we accumulated, especially the items Rich saved that were gathering dust or growing mold. He tried to purge over the years, but letting go was hard for him. His attempts, though sincere, barely made a dent. I’ve managed to let go of a lot, and still my closets and garage overflow.

But here’s what I’ve learned: what I’ve donated, sold, tossed, or given away does not define my husband. They were just objects, not the things that carry his imprint. When I donated his suits and dress shoes to Volunteers of America, I didn’t feel sadness — I felt hope. I imagined some deserving, portly gentleman enjoying those suits Rich hadn’t worn in a decade.

His everyday clothes still hang in his closet. I’m not ready to empty it, and I want Alex to have the time to look through them and decide if anything speaks to him. Realistically, Rich’s style isn’t Alex’s, but meaning doesn’t always follow fashion. If something resonates with him, it should be his choice.

What I have released is the clutter — the McDonald’s receipts, the decades-old airline tickets, the little scraps of life Rich held onto for reasons I’ll never know. Keeping those things wasn’t part of my healing. What has been healing is surrounding myself with photos — Rich, Alex, Steve, my parents, my in-laws — creating a space that feels like my signature, my circle of love.

Widows often ask, “When am I supposed to…?” And the truth is: there is no supposed to. But we also have a responsibility to the people who loved our spouse too. Children, parents, grandchildren — they deserve the chance to connect with the things that help them heal. Just because I was Rich’s wife doesn’t mean everything he owned belongs solely to me. He made it clear he wanted me cared for, but he also wanted his boys to choose anything of his that mattered to them. And he never once referred to Steve as anything other than his son.

I’ve purged alone, and I’ve purged with Alex and Steve — with more to come. These moments have given us space to reflect, to share stories, to create new memories for the days ahead. I encourage you to do the same: let the stories of the past weave into the fabric of your life today. Let the emotions — the tears, the laughter — meet you where you are. Let them heal the wounds that loss has carved.

In Part 14, I mentioned the migraines I’ve been battling. When one of those chronic headaches hit, Rich always knew when I was truly down for the count. He wasn’t a natural caregiver, but if I asked, he sprang into action. Yesterday, as I lay in bed with medication failing me, I let myself feel his energy. Just as his love helped me push through the pain in the past, it comforted me again. I reminded myself to relax, breathe, and let the pain ebb and flow until it finally loosened its grip.

This morning I woke up feeling hungover from days of pain. So, I did what Rich would have told me to do: I reached for my new ice cap, sipped the caffeine I desperately needed, and let the cold soothe the throbbing.

Yesterday was a day for healing. Today I’m easing back into life — a little work, a few errands, a visit with a friend. The chronic pain is still with me, but I’m using my tools, my strength, and my resilience to live my day.

Please join me on my journey

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 15

Life After Loss: A Conversation on Grief, Growth, and Moving Forward

Losing a spouse forever alters the course of a life, but grief does not have to prevent someone from finding purpose, independence, and hope. In a recent conversation with Donna Burr, we explored the realities of rebuilding life after the death of a partner — revealing that healing is not about leaving grief behind but learning to carry it while embracing new experiences.

Donna reflected on the nearly three years since her husband’s passing after 38 years of marriage, describing a journey shaped by profound loss and unexpected personal growth. With the support of therapy, she learned to shift her focus from remaining anchored in grief to preserving her husband’s memory while continuing to build a meaningful life. I agreed with her deeply: grief does not have to derail you from living.

She challenged outdated assumptions about widowhood, emphasizing that those who lose a spouse are not defined solely by their loss. Many continue traveling, making major life decisions, pursuing new opportunities, and maintaining meaningful relationships — all while honoring the person they loved.

Donna spoke candidly about the emotional challenges that still surface, such as watching couples together and missing the quiet, wordless understanding that comes from decades of partnership. Having known her husband since she was 15, she said their connection often required no words at all, making his absence especially sharp in everyday moments.

Family dynamics also shift after a loss. Donna shared that her daughters initially became very protective following their father’s death but later struggled as she regained confidence and independence. Our conversation highlighted the delicate balance between accepting support from loved ones and continuing to build a life rooted in personal strength and self‑reliance.

Travel became one of the clearest examples of that adjustment. Donna said she often feels more at ease traveling with other widows or with her mother, who is also widowed. Those who have experienced similar loss, she explained, better understand the emotional weight that can accompany even joyful experiences.

One significant milestone came when Donna purchased a summer home — a decision she made in just two days. The moment marked how far she had come in trusting her own judgment after years of relying on a lifelong partner. While she now makes most decisions independently, she admitted she still occasionally wonders whether her husband would approve.

We also discussed the emotional task of sorting through a spouse’s belongings. Letting go of shared spaces and treasured possessions becomes another stage of grieving, often forcing difficult decisions while preserving cherished memories. I shared that releasing “stuff” was essential to my own healing — because objects do not define the love.

Donna emphasized that grief does not disappear; it simply changes. She recalled telling a family member that there is no moment when someone “gets over” losing a loved one. Instead, grief becomes part of life, its weight shifting over time.

That perspective inspired a powerful tribute following her husband’s fatal motorcycle accident in 2022. The Gary Burr Memorial Fund was created to assist families of fallen motorcyclists with funeral expenses and emotional support during one of the most devastating moments of their lives. Donna credited her daughter with the idea, transforming personal tragedy into a mission to help others. (https://www.facebook.com/p/The-Gary-Burr-Memorial-Fund-100083292553539/)

Our conversation also underscored the importance of practical preparation long before tragedy strikes. Donna encouraged families to openly share essential information — passwords, insurance documents, financial records — noting that many survivors face unnecessary stress simply because these details were never discussed.

Throughout our discussion, we agreed that grief looks different for everyone. Some cry openly; others process quietly. Children experience the loss of a parent differently than a spouse experiences the loss of a lifelong partner. Patience, compassion, and understanding are essential for every family member.

Ultimately, the message was clear: healing does not mean forgetting. Love, memory, and the influence of a spouse remain woven into daily life, offering comfort even as new chapters unfold. Donna’s story is one of resilience — a reminder that those facing profound loss can give themselves permission to grieve, accept support, and trust that life can still hold purpose while carrying the memory of someone who will always matter.

We encourage you to follow our journey.

Please join me on my journey

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 14

Migraines and Widowhood

I’ve lived with migraines since my college days, having my first attack at 19. Back then, doctors believed they were triggered by an overactive thyroid. Over the years I went through thyroid surgery, swung between hyper- and hypothyroid, and saw more neurologists and pain specialists than I can count. Eventually the diagnosis shifted to mixed‑symptom migraines—fueled by stress, tension, and the way my body holds itself.

I’ve spent decades in and out of therapy, OT, and PT, weaving many of those tools into my daily routine. And still, when the pain hits, it slows me down. Even after fifty-plus years, it scares me.

When Rich was alive, he couldn’t take the pain away, but his presence helped me breathe through the worst of it. Just knowing he was nearby softened the edges. Now, when the migraines come—as they did yesterday and through the night—I face them alone. I kept repeating my mantra, this too shall pass, until I finally crawled out of bed around 5:30 a.m., hooked up my TENS unit, and took an Imitrex. Two hours later, the fog began to lift.

Today I’m choosing to move more slowly. I rescheduled an appointment so I could give myself the space I clearly need.

Stress is a strange companion. Sometimes we can feel its electric charge running through us; other times it hides until our bodies reveal it for us. When I mentioned to one of my sons that stress was attacking my nervous system, he asked, “What are you stressed about?” My first instinct was to say nothing. But the truth is everything—even when I think I’m handling it. Stress accumulates quietly, and for those of us who live with chronic conditions, it can cloud our mood, our memory, and our sense of stability.

I’ve worked through migraines that left me temporarily blind. I’ve pushed through days when the pain tried to dictate my life. But pushing too hard often leads to relapse, which is why today I’m choosing to be proactive instead of stubborn.

Being a widow—a word I still wish had a gentler sound—means reminding myself daily that I can do hard things. Rich taught me that. From the beginning, he pushed me to trust my own resilience. When I asked him a question, he’d nudge me to find the answer myself, even when I desperately wanted him to just fix the problem. He knew I needed to build confidence, not dependency. That loving guidance still echoes in me.

So, this morning, as I sat in my rocker with my TENS unit humming, coffee in hand, and a Housewives show playing in the background, I felt the tension slowly releasing. But I also sensed that doing too much too soon would backfire. Since I am the one responsible for my own well‑being now, giving myself a day of reduced responsibility isn’t indulgent—it’s necessary. Today, I am my own client, and I’m prescribing rest.

Chronic pain and grief are intertwined. Unresolved grief creates biological stress, and in my body that stress shows up as migraines and neuropathy. I’m learning to recognize this connection and to build new tools that make life gentler and less painful.

If you notice shifts in your mood or behavior, pause. Check in with yourself. Trace the discomfort back to its source. Become your own detective. Together, we can learn to reduce the stress that fuels our pain.

Please join me on my journey

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 13

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

The Thoughts and Words of Others

Every day, new posts appear across widow and widower support sites, and so many of them begin with the same questions: When will I stop hurting? When will I stop crying? When will I stop missing the person I loved? When will it get better?

The truth is that the answer lives inside each of us. We may never stop hurting entirely, but we can learn to soften the pain. There is no magic wand, no shortcut, no potion. Healing begins with a shift in mindset — allowing yourself to grow around the loss instead of fighting it.

You may never stop crying, but tears don’t have to fall every day. Sadness can come in waves, and love, memory, and positive energy can gently wipe those tears away. You can smile again — not because you stopped loving your spouse, but because you loved them so deeply that they would want to see that smile.

You will always miss your person — their touch, their voice, their quirks, the little things that made them uniquely yours. You’ll remember the less‑than‑perfect moments too, but over time even those may soften into something more humorous than painful. Let your memories comfort you. With time and mindfulness, they will.

There is no timeline for grief, and grief and mourning are not the same. Mourning can follow rituals, traditions, or personal practices — whatever brings you comfort. But even while mourning, you are still allowed to laugh, to smile, to feel joy. Life continues to unfold for you.

I am finding my own strength by listening to my heart. For more than 42 years with Richard, I lived for him and for our family — and I would not change a moment of that. But now, I am learning to live for me. It’s exciting and rewarding, but also difficult. I’m building new friendships Richard will never know. I’m trying new things — Trivia Night, Mahjong, socializing in ways we put on hold for years. I know Rich would be happy for me as I walk this new path, but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy. Sometimes I ask myself, “Should I be doing this?”

And I know the answer is yes. I should be living my life. I should be filling the loneliness with connection. Yet at times it feels almost disrespectful — even though I know, logically and spiritually, that it isn’t.

We can help each other through this journey, whether our loss happened yesterday, last year, or decades ago. It is never too late to begin living fully again — and you get to decide what “fully” means for your life.

None of us have to walk this path alone. Together, we can create a community that supports us as we step into tomorrow.

Please join me on my journey

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 12

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

Listening to Mel Robbins

This morning I was listening to Mel Robbins. She wasn’t talking about widowhood, but she was talking about the importance of hitting the reset button. As I continue walking this path, I’m realizing just how essential that reset truly is.

I’m learning to give myself permission to smile, to laugh, to enjoy life again — and also to cry, to feel the heaviness, and to let myself rage when the grief demands space. All of it is part of being my authentic self. I’m also learning to honor what I need, both physically and emotionally. If I’m going to keep moving forward on this new path, caring for my health has to remain a priority.

Grounding techniques have helped me do that. They anchor my nervous system and give me a way to stay present instead of spiraling into overwhelm.

I’ve always been comfortable in my bare feet, but only recently did I understand why it feels so calming. It’s a simple grounding practice — feeling my toes press into the carpet or settle onto the wood floor. That sensation brings me back into my body. It reminds me where I am, not just the room I’m standing in, but the emotional space I’m inhabiting in that moment.

Another grounding technique I use is asking myself, “How is that working for you?” I used to beat myself up over mistakes — even the ones that weren’t mine to carry — because I felt responsible for everything. Over time, I’ve learned that some things in life simply have to be accepted as they are.

Now, when I ask myself that question, I answer it honestly and with the intention of finding something constructive. Sometimes that means recognizing that an issue doesn’t deserve my energy. And in those moments, I let it drop out of sight and dissolve, because not everything is worth holding onto in the bigger picture.

Being a widow means I no longer have my best friend beside me to share life’s moments — even the quiet ones. I don’t get daily hugs or kisses, and I don’t hear him telling me, over and over, that I’m beautiful and that he loves me. I miss the touch, the words, the intimacy, and yes, even the disagreements. Life was never perfect, and we didn’t always see eye to eye, but that was part of the rhythm of being together.

Now, as a widow, I find myself searching for community — and slowly, I’m beginning to find it. It brings comfort, but it is a complete 180-degree turn from who I was and who I am becoming. As I hold on to my husband’s energy, I feel a deep need for him to walk this path with me in whatever way he can. Forty‑two years together cannot simply disappear; they are woven into who I am and who I am still becoming.

Like so many others, if I could turn the clock back to the first of the year, Richard wouldn’t have gotten sick and died. But he did. I can’t change that reality. What I can change is how I learn to adapt to the path in front of me.

As I walk and slowly find my way, I’m acknowledging that I’m evolving into who I am today. I’m learning to be more independent — partly by necessity, partly by choice. I’m learning to listen to what I need, something I put on hold for most of my marriage. I made the conscious choice to put Richard and our sons first, and now I finally have the opportunity to turn that care inward.

Making it my choice now feels both exciting and grounding. It gives me purpose as I move through life more slowly, appreciating what I’ve had and opening myself to what I can still have.

This is my journey.

If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 11

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

Pangs of Jealousy

Last night, as beautiful as it was to watch two new friends — a husband and wife — show such natural affection toward each other, my heart tightened for a few seconds. An arm around a shoulder, a hand brushing an arm, the easy banter that comes from years of loving familiarity… I recognized all of it. Those were the small, effortless gestures that lived between Rich and me.

And in that brief pang of jealousy, something unexpected happened — I felt connected to them. Almost as if, in watching their tenderness, I could feel Rich’s touch again, his presence, his love.

Earlier in the day, I had filled out a form at the doctor’s office that made me cringe. I am not single. I am not divorced. But the box I am expected to check — widow — still creates a burning pit in my stomach. In my heart and soul, I am still married to my husband. On July 15th, we would have celebrated the second of our two anniversaries. (We married in a civil ceremony in February 1984 and again in a traditional ceremony that July.) We were never big celebrators, but we always acknowledged both days — a quiet dinner, a bit of romance, a shared smile.

Watching my friends last night reminded me of the little things that made our marriage work. Truthfully, if I ever wrote a book about our 42-year journey, even I might be surprised we stayed together as long as we did. From the very beginning, our relationship came with challenges that would have sent many couples in opposite directions. But we didn’t walk away. We faced each other, side by side, and navigated every pothole life put in our path.

I was lucky. Rich showered me with kindness and love, even wrapped in his constant teasing. Humor was his armor — his way of handling life’s difficulties. And although his personality could be misunderstood by others, I always knew that love was the core of him.

Looking back at his last year, I can now see how much he was struggling. He handled cancer treatment with remarkable ease, but the long-term effects of radiation and the complications from diabetes slowly intruded on his life. Rich was never as proactive as I am about health issues, and I know that caused him both physical and emotional distress. He tried to hide it, but I carried it — far more than I should have — and I’m only now learning to set that burden down.

So yes, seeing another couple so happily in love stirred a few pangs of jealousy. But it also reminded me how fortunate I was to have that kind of affection in my life for so many years. I’m holding on to those memories now, letting them comfort me as I take my next steps forward.

Although it may have caused some pangs of jealousy to see someone else happily in love it also reminds me how lucky I am that I had that affection in my life too. I am holding on to those wonderful thoughts to provide me the comfort as I take my next step forward.

Please join me on my journey…

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 10

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

I did a thing.

Yesterday was Father’s Day — and it also would have been my parents’ 85^th wedding anniversary. Instead of spending it in the ways I once knew, I found myself sitting with a group of new friends, learning to play Mahjong.

Never in my life did I imagine observing these days like this. Growing up, family was the center of everything. Father’s Day meant gathering, remembering, and often visiting the cemetery. As a child, I walked those rows of headstones with my parents, listening to stories about grandparents, great‑aunts, uncles — each stop a history lesson, each name a thread in our family tapestry. As the years passed and more loved ones were laid to rest, those visits grew longer, heavier, and more sacred.

June was always a month of celebration and remembrance: Father’s Day, my parents’ anniversary, and my dad’s birthday all woven together.

But life shifted. I moved from city to city, and the traditions of my childhood softened into a single yearly pilgrimage to Machpelah Cemetery in Detroit, where Mom and Dad now rest together for eternity.

So yesterday, sitting among new friends, I felt a pang — that tug of guilt that I wasn’t honoring the day in the way I had grown accustomed to. But then something shifted. I realized I was honoring it — just differently. I was celebrating life. I was living fully. And that is the mission I’ve been working toward since Rich passed.

That pang lifted, and in its place came a quiet contentment.

I’m beginning to understand my own needs. I’m learning that the way I live each day is a tribute — to Richard, to my brother, to my parents, and to every soul who shaped me before leaving this earth. We don’t get to choose every twist in our story, but we do get to choose how we walk the path. Wishing alone won’t build a life, and even hard work doesn’t guarantee the exact shape of our dreams — but without wishing and working, we have no chance at all.

I may never be wealthy in dollars, but I can be wealthy in friendship. I can be wealthy in sunlight, even on cloudy days. I can be wealthy in kindness, in connection, in lifting others up.

I did a thing yesterday. I’ll do another thing today. And tomorrow. Each one a small stitch in the legacy I’m creating.

Please join me on my journey…

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 9

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

A Father’s Day note to my boys—

This is another one of our “firsts,” and we’re walking this new stretch of road together. Some moments may feel heavy, others may surprise us with lightness, and some may leave us unsure of what we’re feeling at all. That’s normal. What matters is that we keep moving with intention, choosing to live fully even when the path bends in ways we didn’t expect.

The father figures in our lives poured love, energy, and wisdom into us, and it’s on us now to carry that forward. I am deeply grateful for knowing and loving your dads—because without them, I wouldn’t have the two of you. Today, I honor both Bruce and Rich.

There was a time when I believed I might never find “my person,” and somehow I was blessed with two. Bruce and I had our difficult years, and I carried anger far longer than I needed to. Rich helped me soften that, helped me find kindness again for my first love and the father of my firstborn. He taught me how to move forward, how to choose compassion, how to look for goodness in others and in myself. I will always be grateful for that.

And today, I honor you—my sons. You’ve grown into good men despite the baggage I may have unknowingly placed on your shoulders. I never intended to make your lives harder; I was simply a parent doing the best I could with what I knew at the time. No parenting book in the world can teach you how to avoid mistakes. Life is full of them. We stumble, we learn, and if we’re lucky, we grow.

Today, I feel the weight of two truths — I am a widow, and I am an adult orphan. Father’s Day brings its own ache, because I no longer have my dad to sit with, laugh with, or hand another tie to that he’d never wear. And yet, even in that ache, I feel the presence of the men who shaped my life.

I was blessed with not just one father, but three. My own dad — my Pops — was my first safe place. His hugs were big and consuming, his kisses loud and sloppy, and his heart was the kind that made him a wealthy man in all the ways that matter. J. Harmon Moss loved deeply, cared widely, and always put others first. I miss him every single day. Like Rich, he walks with me still.

I also had two remarkable fathers‑in‑law. Larry, who was steady, kind, and always in my corner. And Mr. Ed, who embraced me as a daughter from the moment I entered his life. Their love added layers to mine, and I carry that with me.

And then there is Joel. This Father’s Day is the first without him, and my heart aches for his daughter, Rachael. My brother may not have been tall in stature, but he was enormous in spirit. He was the kind of man who would give you the shirt off his back without hesitation, because he truly believed you needed it more. I am grateful beyond words that he and I built a bond that lasted a lifetime. I carry him with me too.

Today is heavy, but it is also full — full of memory, full of love, full of the men who shaped my world. They are gone from sight, but never from me.

And yet, in the middle of all this remembering, there is a bright spot today. My big brother Gary is celebrating Father’s Day in his new home, finally close to family for the first time in more than 30 years. I pray that his health continues to stabilize, that his new chapter in Michigan brings him comfort, joy, and the sense of belonging he deserves. I’m already looking forward to traveling up there, spending time with him, and reconnecting with family soon.

Every morning we’re given a choice in how we greet the day. We can meet the dawn with heaviness, or we can meet it with intention. I’m choosing the path of seeking the best in myself, and I’m asking you to walk that path with me — one day, one breath, one choice at a time.

This is my journey. If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 8

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

It happened again — yesterday, and then today. As I was pulling out of the grocery store parking lot, I noticed that the building where Rich used to work, Vatterott College, had finally been bulldozed. That building sat vacant for more than ten years, and every time we drove past it, Rich would worry about what would become of it. I taught there for a semester or two, but I never felt attached to the place. Rich did. Change was always hard for him, and when something hovered in that in‑between space — not moving forward, not going back — it unsettled him deeply.

When I saw the empty lot, my first instinct was to call Rich and tell him. The disappointment hit me so quickly it left a dull ache in my chest, one I can still feel rising into my throat as I write this.

And then today, something else. Something that brought a sadness I can’t fully explain. The salon where Rich — and Alex, and even Steve — got their hair cut, Gino’s, appears to be closed. Rich started going there in his twenties, more than fifty years ago. After Gino passed, his daughter Gina took over, and everyone in that salon became like family to us. Today was the third time I’ve driven by and found it dark, locked, and without a note on the door. Again, I wanted to call Rich. Again, I felt that shock of loss.

Rich wasn’t just my husband. He was my best friend, my buddy, my go‑to person. Whenever I saw or heard something I knew he’d relate to, I called him — from wherever I was — just to share the moment. Without that connection, I feel unmoored.

Yesterday, when I saw Vatterott was gone, I actually yelled out, “Hey Rich, Vatterott’s gone!” I told him he didn’t have to worry about it anymore. But today, with the salon, I hesitated. He would be sad not knowing what happened, so until I learn more, mums the word.

If you’re reading this thinking, Karen has lost it, what I want you to know is this: I truly believe that when we die, a part of us remains in this world. I think of it as the energy our loved ones leave behind — Rich, my brother Joel, my parents. Their influence is woven into my days, sometimes so subtly I don’t notice it until after the moment has passed.

This morning, for example, I baked a cake for a luncheon. I couldn’t just bake a cake — I had to make it special, because that’s what my mother taught me. I improvised, added my own signature touches, and I know that came from her energy nudging me.

Last night, I was hauling heavy book bags to my car so I could take them to Half Price Books today. Each bag weighed about twenty‑five pounds, yet I lifted them easily because I could hear Rich telling me, You can do it. From the very beginning of our relationship, he filled me with positivity, always reminding me how capable I was — and I am.

As I sit here writing, I can feel the love I shared with each of them. And I can send love back through my thoughts, my memories, my awareness.

Lately, I’ve noticed myself taking small pauses throughout the day — looking at the sky whether it’s clear or cloudy, feeling the temperature, watching the birds, laughing at the squirrels and chipmunks causing mischief in the yard. I’m listening more closely to the sounds around me, especially the laughter of children in the neighborhood. I’m becoming more aware of living life, not just impersonating it. Facing my challenges has become an opportunity to be the best version of myself in that moment. And I want to encourage others to do the same.

Living your best life isn’t about finances. It’s about health, purpose, kindness, connection. It’s holding doors, saying hello, offering help. It’s not about fancy homes, trips, or cars — it’s about building community. And you can do that too!

This is my journey. If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 7

Coping with Spousal Loss

Karen discusses her preference to be called by her name rather than “widow” and shared her experience of missing the ability to share daily moments with her late husband Rich. She explained how someone having to share even minor experiences with was important in their relationship and highlighted how lonely it can be after losing a long-term partner. Karen mentioned Rita Rizzo from a previous video (https://youtu.be/vt5agfIOn2k) who has been coping well despite losing her husband Lou and caring for him before his death.

Living in Memory After Loss

Karen also shares how she continues to feel connected to her deceased spouse Rich and how she makes decisions based on what she believes Rich would want. In the video (https://youtu.be/vt5agfIOn2k) Karen and Rita shared personal experiences about talking to loved ones who have passed and emphasized the importance of not letting go of the energy and memories of those who have died.

Karen encourages others to her in moving forward, being honest about whether their deceased loved ones would want them to remain sad, and focus on living happily in their memory.

If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 6

WCTU CLEVELAND 13 — A heartfelt discussion on grief, remembrance and resilience explored the emotional realities of losing a spouse and the challenges of building a meaningful life after profound loss.

The conversation focused on the deeply personal experience of surviving the death of a longtime partner and the ways people navigate the loneliness that often follows. Karen reflected on how difficult it can be to lose not only a spouse but also the person with whom daily experiences, both significant and routine, were shared.

The discussion highlighted how seemingly minor moments can take on greater meaning after a loved one is gone. The ability to exchange thoughts about everyday events, seek advice or simply share observations was described as an essential part of a long-term relationship. Without that constant companionship, many surviving spouses find themselves confronting an unexpected sense of isolation.

The exchange also revisited the experiences of another woman who lost her husband after serving as his caregiver during a lengthy illness. Her journey was presented as an example of resilience and adaptation, demonstrating that while grief remains a lasting presence, it does not have to prevent a person from continuing to live a fulfilling life.

A central theme of the discussion was the idea that emotional bonds do not necessarily end with death. Participants described maintaining a sense of connection with loved ones who have passed away through memories, conversations and personal reflection. Rather than viewing remembrance as an obstacle to healing, the dialogue suggested it can serve as a source of comfort and guidance.

The conversation further examined how surviving spouses often continue to consider what their partners might have wanted for them. Decisions, life choices and personal goals can remain influenced by the values and encouragement shared during the relationship, creating a lasting sense of presence even after loss.

Throughout the discussion, participants emphasized the importance of moving forward without abandoning cherished memories. They encouraged those struggling with grief to honestly consider whether their loved ones would want them to remain consumed by sadness or instead embrace life with purpose and happiness.

The talk ultimately presented grief not as something to overcome completely, but as an experience that evolves over time. By honoring memories, maintaining meaningful connections and continuing to engage fully with life, those coping with loss may find a path that balances remembrance with hope for the future.

If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t’ Call Me a Widow Part 6

Life After Widowhood Journey

Rita and the interviewer discussed Rita’s journey as a widow and her approach to navigating life after loss. Rita shared an anecdote about taking her Great Pyrenees dog Bella to the grocery store, where Bella’s well-behaved behavior attracted attention from other shoppers. The interviewer explained their initiative to create a series featuring people who are actively living their lives after widowhood, rather than those who are “living in a shadow,” and expressed admiration for Rita’s positive outlook and willingness to engage with life.

Widowhood and Remembering Lou

Karen’s interview with Rita Rizzo discusses how they met through a previous podcast and reconnected after both losing their spouses. Rizzo shared memories of her late husband Lou, including their political activism and how he supported Obama’s presidency. The conversation began with Rizzo describing a difficult day triggered by watching the Obama building dedication event, which reminded her of Lou and prompted reflections on their shared experiences.

Lou’s Life and Legacy Partnership

Rita shared the story of meeting Lou 35 years ago at a leadership training in Akron, Ohio, where they connected over their shared Native American heritage. They later collaborated on diversity training programs for various cities, eventually building a government consultancy together before marrying. Lou passed away after 33 years of marriage, with Rita caring for him during his final two years as his diabetes worsened.

Coping with Grief and Remembrance

Rita discussed her experience caring for her husband Lou over two years before his death, noting that while she had preparation time, the process was still challenging. She shared how she honors Lou’s memory by creating a tribute in her office with his ashes, photos, music, and wedding ring, though listening to his music can be emotionally difficult. The conversation highlighted how different people handle grief, Karen emphasized the importance of focusing on positive memories rather than dwelling on loss.

Widow’s Care Planning Discussion

Rizzo discussed her experiences as a widow and the challenges of being alone, including concerns about future care if she becomes ill. She mentioned her family and friends in Central Ohio and her pets but noted her pets aren’t able to provide the care she might need. Karen suggested that while nursing homes can have issues, there are good ones available and mentioned that home care options are becoming more accessible, potentially through Medicare.

Grandson Moving In Discussion

Rita shared that her 30-year-old grandson, a registered nurse, is moving in with her on the 30th of the month to work at Cleveland Clinic. She described how they completely redid the basement to create a new living space with a bedroom, game room, and living room for him. Karen share how they both see this as an opportunity for personal growth and change, with Rita acknowledging she had been resistant to change in her routines.

Obama Memories and Reflections

Rita shared her emotional reaction to watching clips of Obama during a building dedication in Chicago, which triggered memories of her work with Obama’s communications staff and her late husband Lou. She described how the experience led to tears and reflections on their past work promoting equality under Obama’s presidency. She also mentioned meeting a new male friend with whom she has gone to dinner occasionally, though she emphasized maintaining appropriate boundaries.

Rita’s Widowhood Experience

Rita shared her experiences with widowhood, describing her first marriage that ended tragically when her husband was murdered, and her current marriage to Lou which ended peacefully. She explained that she continues to wear her wedding ring as does Karen. Karen discussed how she copes with missing physical affection from her late husband by accepting hugs and kisses from family and close friends. The host expressed appreciation for Rita’s participation in discussing widowhood and announced plans to share the conversation on newclevelandradio.net and Cleveland 13 News.

If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 5

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

I am still Mrs. Historical etiquette considers it proper to continue to honor your marriage and the legacy of your husband. According to the late Emily Post, a widow’s title does not change after her husband’s death.

Historically, Mrs. has been considered the proper and respectful title for a widow who wishes to continue honoring her marriage and her husband’s legacy. Even Emily Post affirmed that a widow’s title does not change after her spouse’s death.

However, in modern times, some women feel that “Mrs.” defines them too narrowly or signals that they are unavailable for companionship. They prefer “Ms.” as a way to reclaim their identity. And that is perfectly valid. The point is simple: we have a choice. No woman’s identity should be dictated by societal norms or assumptions — not in marriage, not in widowhood, not ever.

The same truth applies to wedding and engagement rings. For many of us, these rings are not just jewelry; they are part of our story, our skin, our heart. They carry emotional weight and the history of a life built with intention. There is no rule — written or unwritten — that requires us to remove them. They were given in love, and they remain ours in love.

Some argue that rings are identity markers, symbols of a commitment between partners. And yes, our vows included “in sickness and in health… until death do us part.” But death does not erase devotion. When the heart stops beating, the relationship changes form — it does not disappear. Many widows and widowers continue to honor their vows even as they evolve, heal, and redefine themselves. We carry the energy of love forward. Our vows transform, and so do we. How we are addressed, and whether we wear our rings, is a deeply personal decision.

As a widow, I am not technically single, nor am I married in the traditional sense. I am not divorced. I am placed in a category society calls “widow,” a word that often conjures an outdated image of an old woman draped in black — a picture that does not reflect who most of us are.

I took my vows to Richard and lived them fully. We walked through life with mutual devotion, clarity, and courage. I held his hand for decades, through joy and through the unimaginable. And now, I choose not to crumble. I am on a healing journey, living my vows in a new way — by honoring that life still matters. Not just for me, but for you too.

This is my journey.

If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call me a Widow – Part 4

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

The day we become a widow is an ordinary day of the week that suddenly divides our life into before and after. It changes us, but it also sends ripples through every relationship connected to us. Friends who were part of our married life often rally around us at first, then slowly drift back into their own routines. Family members shift too — sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically. In‑laws, adult children, siblings, and extended family all begin to relate to us differently, even when they don’t realize it.

In‑laws, in particular, can profoundly shape our grieving. Each person grieves in their own deeply personal way, and those differences don’t always align with the expectations of others — including our children. Research shows that after a spouse dies; relationships often change quickly and sometimes permanently. If there were cracks in the foundation before the loss, death has a way of widening them.

Grief can strain or strengthen relationships. Much depends on personality, emotional capacity, and willingness. For some families, grief becomes a bridge. For others, it becomes a wall. And for many widows, the grief period can sever relationships almost instantly.

In my own life, I have been spared that particular pain. I never had to navigate in‑laws who withdrew or adult children who stepped away. I was blessed with wonderful in‑laws, and though they have long since passed, I know in my heart that if they were still here, we would be comforting one another. That was the nature of our relationship.

My sons have been remarkable. My oldest Steve — Rich’s stepson — has taken the lead in helping Alex and me navigate this unfamiliar terrain. Even while carrying his own grief, he has been steady, loving, and present. Alex has carried a heavier emotional burden after losing his dad, and as his mom, I’ve tried to meet him with empathy and understanding. His return to his home and work was difficult for both of us, but as he said, we had to “rip off the band‑aid.” We each sought support in our own way — he through therapy, and I through coaching. We are both finding our footing, and each day gets just a little easier.

But through the support groups I’ve joined, I’ve heard stories filled with deep sadness. Unresolved conflicts that existed before the death often intensify afterward. Family and friends may become distant or disappear entirely, leaving the widow feeling abandoned, unappreciated, or invisible. It is a second loss layered on top of the first.

As widows and widowers, we must learn to create boundaries — even in the most delicate emotional season of our lives. This is our journey. Others may have needs, opinions, or expectations, but they do not get to bulldoze their way across our emotional landscape. We are allowed to protect our peace, our healing, and our space.

Grief changes relationships. But it also teaches us who we are, what we need, and how to stand on our own ground — gently, firmly, and with dignity.

This is my journey.

If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 3

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

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 2

My name is Karen and I am a Widow

But what does it mean to be a widow? Being a widow, I am still a whole person, even when I don’t feel like one.

I’m not half of a couple and less because I am now alone.

Widowhood should not feel like a tragedy however due to the pity from outsiders we are treated as fragile pieces of glass, many people avoid us and too many try to take advantage. (More on that later.)

I was a wife who loved deeply, lost deeply, and is still here and now I must grow by choosing to rebuild my life through connecting with others.

Widowhood is not who I am. It’s just a label for others to attempt to identify me.

I am still me even while I am walking through life feeling a bit dazed by the eruption, that earth quack that pulled me down and into a vortex of confusion. As I come out of the rubble I will evolve into my person just as I evolved when I met and fell in love with my husband.

The road is different and I am using my internal GPS to get me to my destination and that is where I will find contentment and happiness that initially felt like it was stolen from me. My internal compass is energize by 42 years memories to my best buddy, my husband Rich.

However, widowhood is not a club women want to join. Also, men experience loss and grief as well, but women tend to outlive their spouses. However, when our partner dies whether we join an actual group or we grouped in by label, we often become the extra at the dinner table, or the one not invited.

What I’ve learned in these five months as a new widow is this: I must accept the love and support offered by family and friends, but I also have to learn to depend on myself as I create a new circle. And if you’re reading this, please don’t tell yourself you’re too old or too busy to make new connections. It is possible — and it’s necessary. There are countless online, virtual, and local groups, and the support can be remarkable.

Support and guidance are only as good as you allow them to be. We all have choices to make, including asking for help and choosing who we will accept it from.

Grief coaching, therapy, and medical support are all valid avenues, and over the course of this series, I will explore different forms of coaching that may be beneficial. Ultimately, the choice is yours — and your needs may change over time.

If you’re looking for a place to start, here are some communities many find helpful:

Online (Facebook)

Widows and Widowers Together
Grief Support for Loss of Spouse
My Husband in Heaven
Late Night Widows & Widowers
When We Became Me – A Journey Through Widowhood (Private Community)

Local Resources

Cornerstone of Hope
GriefShare (griefshare.org)
Reserve Care (formerly Hospice of the Western Reserve)
Solace – Grief Crisis Support for Seniors

My personal preference is grief coaching. As a life coach myself, I appreciate the engagement, structure, and forward‑movement coaching offers. I’ve participated in both therapy and coaching, and each served a purpose at different times in my journey.

Grief therapy is clinical, diagnostic, and focuses on mental health conditions or trauma. Grief coaching is non‑clinical, present‑focused, and centered on practical support, coping tools, and forward movement. (This takes me into my tomorrow.)

Both are valuable — they simply serve different needs, and only you know which one supports your journey.

What I appreciate most about grief coaching is its focus on helping you understand your grief experience. Together, you and your coach develop coping strategies and navigate the identity shifts that come after loss.

Key Characteristics of Grief Coaching

Focuses on present‑day challenges and future goals
Helps create structure, routines, and coping tools
Supports meaning‑making and rebuilding life after loss
Does not explore trauma in depth or treat clinical symptoms
Provides guidance, accountability, and emotional support
Works well for people who feel stuck, foggy, overwhelmed, or unsure how to move forward — which describes my own experience

Widowhood changes everything, but it doesn’t end your capacity to grow, connect, and rebuild. You are allowed to seek support. You are allowed to choose what works for you. And you are allowed to create a life that honors your past while still moving toward your future.

Join me on my journey – #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Don’t Call Me a Window Part 1

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

I am not the only one.

Every year, an estimated 3.5 million women around the world become widows. Yet despite the sheer number of us, most women, me included, are completely unprepared for this life-altering change.

Widowhood is a label placed on a woman when her husband dies, but the word itself barely scratches the surface of what it means.

We stand at an altar and promise, “Till death do us part,” but few of us truly understand what that promise may one day require. We imagine growing old together. We picture peaceful endings and time to prepare. Yet life rarely follows the script we create in our minds.

Even a woman who has always been independent, built a career, managed a household, and taken pride in her strength often discovers that part of that independence was quietly woven together with the presence of her husband. His voice. His habits. His companionship. His place in the daily rhythm of life.

When he is gone, the independence remains, but the partnership that shaped it suddenly disappears.

And that absence is louder than anyone warns you it will be.

Widowhood is not simply the loss of a person. It is the loss of a shared identity, a shared future, and a shared language. It is waking up in a life that looks familiar but feels completely foreign. It is learning how to breathe in a world that has shifted without your permission.

Yet widowhood is also a testament to love.

It is proof that someone mattered enough, loved deeply enough, and left an imprint powerful enough to ache when they are gone. It is a journey of rediscovery, resilience, and rebuilding. It is the quiet courage of taking one step forward when you cannot see where the path leads.

I am a widow.

Not because I chose it, but because life chose it for me.

And like millions of women before me and millions more who will follow, I am learning what it means to carry grief in one hand and possibility in the other.

Being a widow means living with an unexplainable grief, a grief that comes without language, without a roadmap, and without preparation. The person you pledged your life to, the one who pledged his life to you, is suddenly gone.

In the moments after death, even memories that once felt warm and solid can seem unreal, like scenes from someone else’s life.

There is no more touch.
No more hug.
No more kiss.
No more whispered words meant only for you.

The world continues spinning, yet a void fills the air around you. Your thoughts remain frozen in another time, another version of your life. You find yourself longing not to move forward but to go back. Back to yesterday. Back to the moment before everything changed. Back to the woman you were when he was still here.

You do not want to be this version of yourself.

You did not choose this chapter.

Being a new widow feels like standing in the middle of an earthquake. The ground splits beneath your feet. You are swallowed by shock, disbelief, and sudden emptiness. Then you find yourself dropped into an unfamiliar landscape filled with rubble.

Not physical rubble, but the debris of your inner world.

Memories that hurt to touch.
Nothing feels stable.
Nothing feels familiar.
Your heart struggles to understand what your mind cannot yet accept.

This is the part of widowhood no one prepares you for.

This is the part no vow, conversation, or life experience can teach you.

This is the part you survive moment by moment, breath by breath.

And even though the grief feels impossible to explain, you are not alone.

Millions of women enter this same earthquake every year, not because they are ready, but because love and loss have always been intertwined.

When you share your story, your truth, and your courage to name what this feels like, you help another widow understand that she is not losing her mind.

She is grieving.

And there is a difference.

This is my journey.

If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

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Don’t Call Me a Widow, My Name is Karen

Don’t Call Me a Widow Part 15

Life After Loss: A Conversation on Grief, Growth, and Moving Forward