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