Opening Reflection: The Double Bed in the Auberge
Last night, I offered to share a bed with a woman.
Not how it sounds.
We were at a busy auberge on the Camino. The place was full — every bunk taken, every corner buzzing with weary pilgrims. Jane, someone I’d met earlier that day, had drawn the short straw and landed the top bunk. I, on the other hand, had been given what looked like a double bed — really just two singles pushed together. It felt spacious and, without thinking too deeply, I turned to her and said,
“If you don’t want to climb up, you’re welcome to share with me. There’s plenty of space.”
She paused. Looked at me. There was something in her expression — not quite shock, but a definite calculation. Then she smiled, politely, and said, “No thanks, I’m fine up top.”
It was only the next morning that it hit me.
What had I done? Was that completely inappropriate? Did she think I was trying something? Was I just a clueless old man, or had I crossed a line?
So I went to her. I apologized.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. There was no agenda. I was just trying to be kind.”
And she was gracious. She got it. But that moment lodged itself in my brain.
Because it made me realize something huge:
I’m not seen the way I used to be.
When Angé was alive, It was “Ian and Angé.” Safe. Known. Clearly partnered. Nobody ever questioned my intentions because my intentions were known — I was hers, and she was mine.
Now, I walk into spaces alone. And I realize, more and more, that being single changes how you’re read — especially across the gender line. It complicates the most innocent forms of connection. It puts everything under a quiet microscope.
And it raises the question:
How do I make and keep friends now — especially when I’m no longer half of something?
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1. When Your Identity Changes Without Your Consent
I didn’t ask for my social role to change. But it did.
When you lose a partner, it’s not just the personal grief that hits you — it’s the social grief too. You’re no longer invited in the same way. You’re no longer automatically included in couple-based activities. People don’t quite know where to place you.
I used to belong to a rhythm — weekend dinners, holidays, group chats, late-night laughs around a table. But suddenly, I’m coming to dinner alone. I’m the one who used to bring Angé. I’m the one now without a “plus one.”
And even if nobody says it, you feel it.
You start to notice the way people look at you. The hesitation. The slight awkwardness. The sense that you don’t quite fit the mould anymore.
It’s not deliberate. It’s just that your identity changed, and everyone — including you — is still trying to catch up.
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The Dinner with Matthew
I remember one night having dinner with my son Matthew. He had invited a group over — four couples and me.
We sat around a long table. The couples naturally paired off opposite each other, like magnets finding their match. Each pair had their rhythm — shared looks, inside jokes, half-finished sentences that the other could complete.
And then there was me.
I was seated at the end of the table, the “odd number” in an otherwise even arrangement. The positioning wasn’t intentional or unkind — it just happened that way. But as the conversation flowed, I became aware of something: I wasn’t part of the couple dynamic anymore.
I couldn’t lean into those shared stories, those nod-and-smile memories. I was in a different role now. I wasn’t the partner to someone at the other end of the table — I was an independent participant.
That night taught me something: being single after loss often means you have to consciously place yourself in the social space. Sometimes that means taking the end seat and owning it, being the bridge between groups rather than part of a pair. Sometimes it means adjusting your expectations for how you’ll be included in conversation.
It’s not about being left out — it’s about learning where you now fit, and how to carry yourself with both dignity and warmth in that space.
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2. The Tension of Innocent Connection
There’s something deeply painful about just trying to be friendly — and realizing it can be misunderstood.
That moment with Jane reminded me that even kindness needs a disclaimer now. Even friendliness can be seen as flirtation.
I wasn’t trying to seduce anyone. I wasn’t trying to cross a line. I was trying to help someone avoid a top bunk.
But the world we live in — and maybe the wounds I carry — make those kinds of interactions complicated. They live in grey areas. In unspoken rules.
Suddenly, I’m aware of how my friendliness might come across.
I second-guess things I used to say without hesitation.
A compliment. A shared joke. A seat offered.
And I think, Will this be misread?
That’s a heavy thing to carry when all you want is connection.
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3. Being the Single Man in the Room
I’ve noticed something else: the rules are different for men and women.
When a woman is newly single — especially through grief — people rally around her. They protect her. They form a circle of safety. She is seen as vulnerable.
When a man is newly single, especially at my age, he’s more likely to be seen as a potential risk. Or worse — a predator.
I don’t blame anyone for that. It’s just how the world works right now. But I feel it. I sense it when I walk into a room full of couples. I see it when someone subtly keeps their distance. I hear it in the shift of conversation when I join a group.
Before, I was safe because I was “Angé’s man.”
Now I am just… a man. Alone. Unknown.
And with that comes a level of mistrust I never had to navigate before.
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4. Just Wanting to Make a Friend — But Now It’s Complicated
Here’s the irony: I’ve never felt more in need of human connection — and never more uncertain about how to make it.
After Angé died, my world got quieter. Lonelier. Not just emotionally, but practically. There were fewer people around. Fewer invites. Fewer conversations.
So I tried reaching out. Making new friends. Having a meal with someone. Sitting at a bar and chatting to the person next to me.
But some times , there’s that flicker of discomfort — either theirs or mine. What does this mean? What are you hoping for?
And I want to shout, Nothing! I’m not looking for anything. I just want to talk. I just want to be seen. I just want to feel human again.
I don’t want a partner. I don’t want a rebound. I don’t even want sympathy.
I just want companionship without confusion.
But I’ve come to understand — that’s harder to ask for than it sounds.
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5. Rebuilding Friendship — Gently and Honestly
So what do I do?
I try to be honest.
If something feels awkward, I name it.
If someone misreads my actions, I explain gently.
If I’m unsure of someone’s intentions, I ask — kindly.
I also try to show up slowly.
I let friendships build over time.
I give people space to figure me out again — or for the first time.
And I try not to blame people who back away. Not everyone knows how to do friendship with someone who is grieving and single. It’s an odd cocktail of energy — vulnerability, openness, melancholy, and quiet hope.
Some friends will lean in. Others will not.
Some will treat you like nothing’s changed.
Others will treat you like everything has.
The key, I think, is to forgive the awkwardness — in them and in myself.
To keep showing up anyway.
To believe that real friendship still exists — even if it takes longer now.
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6. The Gift of Being in the Moment
There’s one thing I’ve started saying more and more — not just to others, but to myself:
“Let’s just enjoy this moment. That’s all.”
Not everything has to lead somewhere. Not every conversation needs a future.
Sometimes, all I want — all I need — is a good cup of coffee, a quiet chat, a shared laugh. No expectation. No pressure. No subtext.
When I met someone new on the Camino, or sat at a table of strangers, I remind myself — and occasionally them — that this is enough.
Right here. Right now.
There’s so much pressure to define everything.
“Where is this going?”
“What kind of friend are you looking for?”
“Is this romantic? Platonic? Something else?”
But the truth is, grief has stripped a lot of that from me.
I’m not planning. I’m not hunting. I’m not angling.
I’m just being.
And it’s one of the few gifts grief gives us:
The chance to live fully in a single moment.
To treasure what is — not what might be.
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Conclusion: Belonging Again — Just Differently
Being single after loss isn’t just about navigating loneliness. It’s about relearning how to belong.
I used to belong because I was part of a couple. Now I belong as myself.
It’s more complicated. More fragile.
But in some ways, more real.
I’ve learned to tread lightly, speak honestly, apologize when needed, and trust my heart.
I’ve learned that I am still worthy of friendship — even if I have to work harder for it.
I’ve learned that moments matter more than labels.
That presence is more valuable than potential.
And I’ve learned that grief might make me single — but it hasn’t made me invisible.
I’m still here.
Still reaching out.
Still walking toward connection — one careful, kind step at a time.
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Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I know what it is to be part of something so safe and certain that the whole world reads you differently.
Because of her, I learned that trust is built slowly, in the small, consistent acts of showing up.
Because of her, I believe friendship is not about what you can get from someone, but about simply standing beside them — through their ordinary days, not just their milestones.
And because of Angé, I walk into every new friendship with the quiet hope that somewhere, beneath the awkwardness, people can still see the man she loved — and that they might come to love him as a friend, too.
