Angé, I have to say this out loud, and I hope you’re smiling.
I miss you. Deeply, daily, unbearably.
But I don’t miss waiting for you every time we had to go somewhere.
I don’t miss the way you’d tidy around me as I worked, making little comments about cleaning as if I were a messy teenager.
I don’t miss the 25-minute pause before we could leave the house.
I don’t miss your habit of “just quickly” starting a new task as we were walking out the door.
I don’t miss those little reminders to turn off the lights, to close the cupboard, to rinse the dishes immediately.
And yet, I do.
Not in the way people expect. I don’t miss the irritation they caused, but I’ve come to miss what they meant.
This chapter is about a tricky, honest part of grief — the part we usually keep quiet about.
The part that says: not everything about my partner was easy.
The part that whispers: some of the things she did really bugged me.
And now that she’s gone, those moments have stopped. Life is more efficient. More on time. Less cluttered. Less interrupted.
And yet again — less full.
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1. The Permission to Be Honest
One of the hardest lessons in grief is learning that it’s okay to tell the truth about the whole person — not just the haloed version we hold up in memory. We loved them not because they were perfect, but because they were them. With all their quirks and oddities. With all their timing issues, tone, habits, and rituals.
To admit there are things we don’t miss doesn’t make us unloving. It makes us human. And it makes them human, too.
Let’s be real: we all have parts of ourselves that are frustrating to live with. Angé used to say that I left lights on in every room, that I had selective hearing, that I forgot birthdays until the day of. She teased me with love — and occasionally, with that raised eyebrow that said really, Ian? Again?
And now, there’s no one to tease me. No one to point out the thing I forgot. No one to annoy me in the way only someone close can.
It’s strangely quiet without the friction. And in that quiet, I realise just how much of life’s warmth came from those little rubs against each other’s edges.
I’ve spoken to other widows and widowers, and nearly all of them eventually admit to this — sometimes hesitantly, as if they’re confessing a crime. One woman told me she didn’t miss the way her husband snored so loudly she had to wear earplugs. But now, she keeps a recording of it on her phone, because in the silence of the night, she misses knowing he was there.
We don’t miss the discomfort, but we miss the presence that came with it.
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2. Grief Isn’t Just Longing — It’s Also Relief
This is something no one tells you, because it sounds cruel at first: sometimes grief comes with a small sense of relief.
Not because the person is gone — but because some of the tension, some of the pressure, some of the strain that came with the dynamic has lifted. You no longer have to argue over the same old things. You no longer have to navigate the same repetitive conversations. And yes, your time is your own now. You don’t have to wait.
It’s not a relief you celebrate — it’s a relief you notice quietly, perhaps guiltily at first. It might come when you find yourself walking straight out the door without anyone calling after you to grab a jacket. It might appear when the kitchen stays exactly as you left it.
But you’d trade all of it, instantly, without hesitation, to have them back.
Still, you are allowed to notice that some things are easier now. And instead of feeling guilt, maybe the invitation is to feel grateful. You are still here. You have space to breathe. And maybe this ease is part of your changing behaviour, too. Maybe it’s teaching you how to carry less friction into other relationships.
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3. The Danger of Over-Romanticising the Past
It’s common to fall into the trap of idealising someone after they’re gone. Memory has a way of softening the edges, rounding off the rough corners until they become almost unrecognisable. But grief must also make room for the real version of the person — the whole, glorious, irritating, beautiful, flawed version.
If we only remember the best parts, we risk losing touch with the truth. We might begin to feel like our grief isn’t valid when we start to recover, because we’ve convinced ourselves that we’ve lost a perfect angel, rather than a real human being who sometimes left the milk out or forgot to pay a bill.
Mourning isn’t about building a perfect statue. It’s about holding onto the love and letting the rest dissolve — gently, honestly, without shame.
Angé wasn’t perfect. Neither am I. And yet our imperfections wove together into something lasting and strong.
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4. Finding Meaning in the Irritations
Oddly enough, I now find meaning in those old irritations. I don’t miss the actions, but I miss the person who did them. I miss what they meant.
Angé fussed over cleaning because she cared about space. She was not concerned about time because she was a free spirit. We will get there when we get there. She reminded me to rinse because she wanted the world around us to work well — for both of us.
Even in the small annoyances, there was love. Even in the corrections and the last-minute delays, there was care. And in recognising that, I’ve learned that sometimes what irritates us is also what shapes us.
Now, I find myself slowing down in ways I never did before — because maybe she was right. Maybe there’s no harm in “just quickly” doing one more thing before heading out. Maybe the delay was actually a moment to breathe.
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5. Can I Be Grateful and Not Guilty?
Yes. You absolutely can.
Grief isn’t about pretending someone was perfect. It’s about holding space for the full story — what you miss and what you don’t. The moments of beauty, and the moments of tension. The laughter and the eye-rolls. The soft kisses and the sharp words. The moments of synchronicity, and the times you just had to breathe deeply and count to ten.
It’s all part of the mosaic.
If today you walk into a room and think, thank goodness I don’t have to wait 20 minutes for anyone — you are not a bad person. You are a grieving person. A person remodelling their life. A person rebuilding a new rhythm with love and honesty.
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6. Celebrating the New Habits That Now Reflect You
There’s something else that happens after loss — something we don’t talk about often because it feels almost selfish to admit.
When we lived with someone, our choices weren’t entirely our own. We adjusted, adapted, and sometimes gave things up to keep the peace. We learned to compromise — and in healthy relationships, that’s part of the love story.
But when that person is gone, the compromises vanish too. What’s left is space.
Space to make your own decisions without negotiation. Space to reintroduce things you quietly abandoned. Space to create habits that feel entirely yours.
For me, it’s small things. I keep the radio on in the kitchen all day now — even though Angé preferred silence when she cooked. I eat breakfast at my desk because I like starting work early — something we never did together because she valued slow mornings. I’ve brought back my messy “project piles” in the lounge because they make sense to me, even if they look chaotic to someone else.
At first, these changes felt disloyal, as though I was erasing her influence. But over time, I realised they weren’t about erasing her at all — they were about reclaiming parts of myself that had simply been resting while we lived together.
These habits don’t mean I loved her less. They mean I’m still here, still growing, still shaping a life that works for me now. They are reminders that while relationships blend two lives, widowhood hands you back your own — not as it was before, but as it is now, altered by love and loss.
Maybe for you it’s cooking food your partner never liked. Maybe it’s moving furniture the way you wanted it years ago. Maybe it’s staying up late without feeling the need to explain why. Whatever it is, it’s worth celebrating — not as a rebellion, but as a gentle acknowledgment that you have permission to live in a way that reflects who you are today.
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7. Deliberately Changing Your Behaviours
There’s a subtle but powerful choice that can come after loss — not just noticing new habits, but deliberately creating them.
It’s the conscious decision to let certain irritations fade from memory, not by suppressing them, but by replacing them with something that feels better, lighter, or more you.
When we live with someone for years, our daily rhythms become intertwined. Some habits form because we want to please them. Others, if we’re honest, form just to avoid arguments. And some are simply compromises we got used to without even noticing.
After they’re gone, you can choose to carry those habits forever, or you can gently lay them down.
For me, there are small, intentional changes. I no longer rinse every single dish the second it’s used — something I did for years because Angé valued a spotless kitchen. I now stack them and clean up in one go, because it suits my rhythm. I don’t rush through breakfast anymore if I feel like lingering — because I’m the one setting the clock now. And I’ve stopped pausing to check if the towels are hanging just so. Sometimes, they are. Sometimes, they’re not. And either way, the world doesn’t fall apart.
These changes are not about rejecting her. They’re about creating space for my own flow, my own sense of comfort. And by making these small shifts deliberately, I find that the sharpness of old irritations softens. They are no longer live wires in my day. They’ve been rewired into something gentler.
The truth is, forgetting an irritation isn’t about erasing the person. It’s about choosing what energy you want to keep around you. And when you fill that space with something that feels good — whether it’s a different routine, a rearranged room, or a new way of doing the washing — you’re not just moving on, you’re moving forward with intention.
Think of it as redecorating your mind. The memories are still there, but you choose which ones hang in the front hallway and which ones get tucked into the attic.
When you do this deliberately, you’re not just surviving grief — you’re shaping a life that reflects both who you were with them and who you are now without them.
💡 Five Practical Reflections
1. Name Without Shame — Write down three small behaviours your loved one had that used to irritate or frustrate you. Be honest — without guilt or judgment. Naming them doesn’t mean you loved them less; it means you remember them as they truly were.
2. Unpack the Meaning — For each of the behaviours above, reflect on why they existed. Was it about care? Control? Routine? Can you find a layer of love, personality, or habit beneath the surface?
3. Celebrate the Honest Memory — Choose one of those quirks and turn it into a private smile. Next time it crosses your mind, say, “That was so them.” Let it be part of your memory mosaic — without needing to miss it.
4. Release the Guilt — If you feel guilty for not missing certain things, write yourself a short letter of permission. Something like: “It’s okay to feel relieved about small things. That doesn’t mean I would ever trade them for being here.”
5. Build Your New Rhythm — Think of one way your life has become easier or more peaceful since the loss. Don’t deny it. Use that ease to build something kind for yourself — a new habit, a gentler morning, or more time to live
Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I still close cupboard doors automatically. I still glance at my feet when I’m walking into the house, to see if I’ve brought in mud — and I smile, because I can hear her voice saying, “Don’t even think of stepping inside with those shoes.”
I still check if the bathroom towels are hung neatly — because that’s how she liked it.
I don’t miss the irritation. But I do miss the reason behind it.
Because of Angé, even the things I don’t miss carry her memory
