All posts by : olivia

Introduction: The Pattern We Built Together

When you live with someone—really live with them—your lives braid together in subtle, daily ways. It’s not just the big shared events like holidays, anniversaries, or family gatherings. It’s the everyday rhythms.

For Angie and me, the pattern was natural. When I left work and got in the car, I phoned her. She knew when I’d be driving home, and she’d adapt her afternoon around that call. Sometimes she’d save stories to tell me then. Sometimes she’d ask me to pick up something on the way. Sometimes we just talked about nothing at all, filling the time with warmth.

That wasn’t something we had to negotiate. It was built into the fabric of our shared life. Two people, moving in orbit around each other, adjusting without thinking. We shared time, space, and patterns.

But after a partner dies, you step out into a world where the rhythms no longer match. And that is one of the great shocks of mourning: the discovery that other people already have their lives in motion. Their patterns are not yours. They never were.

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The Contrast Between Shared Rhythm and Solo Rhythm

When Angie was here, life ran on “on demand” companionship. If I needed her, she was there. If she needed me, I was there. That doesn’t mean we were constantly available—of course we had jobs, commitments, and responsibilities—but within those limits, there was a sense that we belonged first to each other.

That belonging meant accessibility. It meant I could lean on her without checking her schedule. It meant she could text me at any hour, knowing I would respond when I could. We shaped our days around the reality of us.

Now, in her absence, I find myself reaching toward others—and bumping into the reality that they have whole lives already.

New friends, old friends, even family members—they have yoga classes, tennis games, birthday parties, grandchildren, hobbies, and long-standing routines. They have networks of other friends who claim their time. Their patterns don’t bend automatically to mine, because why would they? They didn’t lose what I lost. Their days were not broken open.

That is a profound adjustment: to go from being at the center of one shared rhythm to being on the outside of someone else’s existing one.

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The Discovery: Other People Had Lives All Along

It sounds almost absurd to say it—of course other people had lives. But when you’re used to a partnership, the depth of that truth doesn’t hit you until you’re mourning.

With Angie, if we wanted to take a walk in the evening, we walked. If we wanted to plan a weekend trip, we planned it. If we wanted to watch a show, we just pressed play together.

Now, if I want to walk, I might ask a friend. But that friend might be busy with her children, or at work, or out at a dance class. If I want to grab coffee, someone might say yes—if they’re not already meeting someone else or catching up on errands.

It’s not rejection. It’s just reality.

I’m learning that when I deepen a friendship, I’m stepping into a rhythm that already existed. I can be welcomed, but I’m not the axis around which it turns. I have to make allowances.

And that realization is both humbling and, at times, lonely.

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On-Demand Companionship Is Gone

One of the hardest parts of losing a partner is losing that sense of companionship “on demand.”

With Angie, I didn’t have to wait for the right time. She was there. If I felt low, I could reach for her. If I had good news, I could share it instantly. If I was simply bored, I could fill the space with her presence.

Now, I send a message and wait. Or I ask, and sometimes the answer is no. It’s not personal—it’s just that friends, unlike partners, aren’t always available. They have to juggle me with everything else.

This isn’t something I resented in the past because I didn’t have to. Now, it becomes a daily exercise in patience, understanding, and recalibrating my expectations.

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Learning Flexibility

Mourning teaches flexibility in ways you never expected.

If I want to connect, I can’t demand. I have to adapt. I have to learn to fit into their calendars, their interests, their priorities.

A friend might love hiking, so if I want time with them, I hike. Another might prefer tennis or dance, so I learn to enjoy watching or participating. Another might be deeply invested in grandchildren, so I learn to accept conversations punctuated by interruptions, or even to embrace being part of that family energy.

It’s not the same as with Angie. With her, our lives were already aligned. With others, I enter their worlds. And slowly, sometimes, they enter mine.

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The Loneliness of “Not Being First”

Perhaps the deepest ache is realizing you’re no longer someone’s first call.

With Angie, I was her person. She was mine. That is a unique role, and when it’s gone, it leaves a hollow space.

Friends may care deeply, but they already have first people—their spouses, children, siblings, or lifelong companions. I enter their circle as “also important,” not “most important.”

And that, too, is an adjustment. To be cared for but not central. To be welcomed but not foundational.

It teaches humility. It forces you to build resilience. It reminds you that intimacy with a partner is irreplaceable—but that friendship, though different, still has its own richness.

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Navigating Disappointment Without Bitterness

It’s easy, in these moments, to feel disappointment slide into bitterness. To think: Why can’t they be there for me like Angie was? Why can’t they put me first?

But that’s unfair. They didn’t sign up for that. They didn’t vow to be my constant. They didn’t mesh their lives with mine.

They are offering what they can: genuine friendship, time within limits, care within the framework of their own lives.

Part of mourning is learning to accept that without resentment. To receive what is given, not demand what cannot be offered. To honor their lives as much as I hope they will honor mine.

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Building New Patterns

What helps is recognizing that new patterns can still be built. Not the same as with Angie, but real nonetheless.

A friend might become my Sunday lunch companion. Another might be my hiking partner once a month. Another might be the one I text at night when sleep won’t come, knowing she’ll reply in the morning.

These aren’t replacements. They’re different kinds of constellations. And slowly, they stitch a new pattern into the fabric of my life.

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Practical Reflections for the Mourner

1. Acknowledge Your Longing for Availability
   It’s normal to miss the constant presence of your partner. Naming that longing helps prevent unfair expectations of others.
2. Practice Patience With Friends
   Accept that your friends’ lives will sometimes make them unavailable. Try to see it as reality, not rejection.
3. Enter Into Their Worlds
   Join them in what they already love—tennis, dancing, family time. It expands your world while strengthening the friendship.
4. Build Rituals Slowly
   Create small, reliable rhythms with each person, even if they’re occasional. They can become anchors in your week or month.
5. Balance Giving and Receiving
   Friendships are two-way. Offer presence and interest in their lives, not only a need for comfort in yours.

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The Wider Lesson: Respecting Other People’s Wholeness

Perhaps the deepest truth in this chapter is that other people are whole, independent beings.

When you’ve lost your partner, it’s tempting to want someone to fill that hole. To want them to bend toward you, the way your partner did. But that desire is rooted in the memory of something uniquely intimate.

Other people can love you, support you, and walk alongside you—but they will not bend their whole pattern of life around you. And that is not failure. It is simply the reality of friendship, family, and community.

Mourning requires us to expand our understanding of relationship. To embrace the richness of being part of many people’s lives, even if we are no longer the center of just one.

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I knew what it was to live in a shared rhythm. To have someone who made space for me at every turn, who matched my patterns with hers, who bent her day so we could meet in conversation.

Because of Angé, the absence feels sharper. But also because of her, I can recognize the gift when someone—even if only occasionally—makes room for me in their world.

She taught me that presence matters. She also taught me to appreciate it when it’s given. And now, even as I learn to live with the reality of other people’s lives, I carry that lesson forward: to honor both the fullness of what was and the partial but still precious gifts of what is.

“What a beautiful sunset.”

There’s something powerful about the closing of a day.

The way the light lingers before it slips away.

The way the colours shift — not suddenly, but gently, giving us time to say goodbye.

That’s what this chapter is. A goodbye to the rawness. A goodbye to being defined by loss. Not the end of the mourning journey — but the moment you start speaking again from who you are becoming, not just who you’ve lost.

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Why Your Elevator Speech Matters After Loss

Sooner or later, someone will turn to you at a dinner table, on a walk, or at a work function and say:

“So, tell me a little about yourself.”

Before your loss, that question may have been easy to answer.

Now? It might stop you in your tracks.

Do you lead with the grief?

Do you tell them that your heart was cracked open by someone you loved and lost?

Maybe not.

Not because you’re hiding it. But because the moment doesn’t always call for that part of the story. Because sometimes, you want to introduce yourself — not your pain. Because sometimes, you just want to belong in a new conversation without the room shifting into sympathy or silence.

This is where the idea of an elevator speech comes in.

It’s a short, confident, authentic introduction. Something that says:

“Here I am. Here’s what I care about. Here’s what I’m working on. And I’d love to talk about it.”

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From “I Am in Mourning” to “This Is Me”

When loss comes — whether it’s the death of a partner, parent, child, sibling, close friend, or even the end of a relationship, career, or long-held dream — it can take over the way you see yourself, and the way others see you.

“I’m in mourning.”

“I’m grieving.”

“I’ve just lost someone.”

All true. All important. But those words can start to feel like your only introduction to the world.

It’s not that you should hide the truth — it’s that you are more than the loss you’ve carried.

What about the part of you that’s learning a new skill?

Or rediscovering an old hobby?

Or showing up for causes you believe in, walking in nature, finding comfort in cooking, reading, or music?

What about the small acts of care you give to others, or the quiet strength you’re finding in simply getting through each day?

Those parts are just as real — and just as worthy of being named.

Shifting from “I am in mourning” to “This is me” doesn’t erase the grief.

It makes space for the rest of your life to stand alongside it.

Your elevator speech is the moment to let that fuller picture speak.

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What a Good Elevator Speech Does

• ✅ It gives people a hook to respond to.

• ✅ It opens up conversation rather than shutting it down.

• ✅ It reflects who you are becoming, not just who you were.

• ✅ It keeps you from leading with sadness in every first encounter.

• ✅ It respects your grief without letting it be your full identity.

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5 Tips to Help You Write Your Elevator Speech

Here are five grounded, practical steps for crafting your new elevator speech — one that honours your journey and helps you step into the future.

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1. Lead with Life, Not Loss

When someone asks, “What do you do?” or “Tell me about yourself,” don’t start with what you’ve been through. Start with what you’re stepping into.

✅ “I’m training for my first half-marathon next year.”

✅ “I’ve just signed up for a photography course — I’m loving learning how to capture light.”

✅ “I’m building a vegetable garden at home and trying to grow everything from seed.”

✅ “I’m planning a small-group hiking trip through the Drakensberg in spring.”

✅ “I’ve been experimenting with new recipes every weekend — I’m aiming to host a dinner party with all my favourites.”

✅ “I’m working on launching my own podcast about inspiring everyday stories.”

✅ “I’m learning Italian because I want to spend a month in Tuscany next year.”

These kinds of answers light up a conversation. They tell people that you’re curious, active, and looking ahead.

They also give them an easy way to connect with you — “Oh, I’ve always wanted to learn photography!” or “I hiked in the Drakensberg last year — you’ll love it.”

🚫 Avoid: “I’m just getting by” or “I’m still figuring things out.”

While true, they don’t spark curiosity or energy. You can always talk about the deeper layers later, once you’ve built a connection — but your opening line is the moment to show you’re living forward.

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2. Include Something You’re Passionate About

Grief often strips away excitement. So when you do rediscover something you care about, name it. Make it part of how you introduce yourself.

“I’ve become really interested in the psychology of resilience and I’m exploring that through writing and conversation.”

“I’ve started volunteering at a community garden. It’s helped bring some peace into my life.”

Passion is magnetic. Even quiet passions. They make people lean in. And they remind you that you still care about things — even in mourning.

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3. Give People a Hook

The best elevator speeches give people something to ask about.

It could be:

• “I’m learning to make fresh pasta from scratch.”

• “I’m creating a small art space at home where I can paint on weekends.”

• “I’m putting together a road trip itinerary for the Garden Route this summer.”

Hooks don’t have to be big. Just human. They turn small talk into real talk.

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4. Be Honest, But Not Overwhelming

Yes, you can acknowledge the reality of your life right now — without letting it be the centre of your identity.

Try:

“I’ve had a busy few months, but I’m enjoying building a new rhythm.”

“I’m in a season of change, and I’m finding ways to live with more purpose.”

This kind of honesty is refreshing. It’s not hiding the truth. It’s simply saying: I’m more than one part of my story.

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5. Practice and Polish It

The best elevator speeches don’t sound rehearsed — but they are practiced.

Say yours out loud.

Say it in the mirror.

Try it at the next social event.

Adjust it if it feels too forced or too vague.

You’re not trying to sell yourself. You’re simply trying to show up with clarity and openness.

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Examples to Try On

“Hi, I’m Ian. I’ve recently walked the Camino de Santiago and I’m planning my next long-distance hike in Europe. I also run a business that helps companies streamline their operations — and I’m always up for a good coffee conversation about new ideas.”

Or:

“I’m a writer and traveller exploring the connection between adventure and personal growth. Right now, I’m developing a series of creative workshops for small groups.”

Or:

“I’ve just finished a photography course and I’m working on a photo series of local landscapes. I’m also learning Italian because I want to spend a month in Tuscany next year.”

Or:

“I’m passionate about great food and great stories — I’m testing new recipes every weekend and hosting themed dinner nights for friends.”

Or:

“I’m training for my first half-marathon, and in between runs I’m working on launching a podcast that shares inspiring everyday stories.”

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Who Are You Becoming?

This isn’t about pretending you’re okay.

It’s about owning the fact that you’re becoming something new.

Even if you’re still in the fog. Even if you’re still aching.

Your elevator speech is a little flame you carry in your pocket.

It says:

“Here I am. I’ve lived through something real.

And I’m still living — and building — and dreaming.”

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Write Yours Now

Take a moment to write your own elevator speech.

Start with one line. Then add another.

Let it evolve. Let it surprise you.

Let it carry the weight of your story — and the light of your future.

And the next time someone turns to you and asks,

“So, tell me about yourself?”

Smile.

And answer from the sunset of your mourning — and the sunrise of your new self.

A Final Reflection: Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I never walk past a sunflower without smiling.

Because of Angé, I know what it means to love someone fiercely — and to keep loving them, even in absence.

Because of Angé, I started planting new seeds: in gardens, in stories, in people.

And because of her, I now introduce myself differently.

Not as someone who’s broken, but as someone who is growing again.

There will be a day after your loss that will feel like the worst one yet.
You might think you’ve already had it — the day they died, the day of the funeral, the day you walked back into an empty home. But grief is unpredictable, and it has a cruel way of surprising you.

Today was mine.

I am trapped on a plane seat that holds more of her than it does me. The space smells the same, the armrests feel the same, and the hum of the engines sounds exactly as it did when we flew together. Every part of this seat is stitched with memories.

We used to pick a movie, press “play” together, and hold hands through the whole film. Sometimes, instead, I would gently rub her hair and she would rest her hand on my thigh, and we’d sit like that until the credits rolled — connected, comfortable, without needing words. She would always try to get Cointreau — sometimes the cabin crew had it, sometimes not — and she would light up when they did. She’d wander to the galley and come back grinning, her pockets full of chocolates, triumphant like a child who’d just raided a treasure chest. Then we’d lift the armrest, she’d rest her head in my lap, I’d keep rubbing her hair, and we’d try to sleep, feeling like the world couldn’t touch us.

Now I’m sitting here alone, my hands empty, the armrest cold, my lap useless. And the memories are relentless. It’s as if time has folded in on itself, and I’m back there — except she isn’t. The contrast between “then” and “now” is so sharp it feels like it’s cutting me from the inside.

I can’t leave. The plane isn’t landing any faster because I’m hurting. There’s no aisle to escape to, no corner of the cabin that isn’t haunted by her. It’s not just emotional pain — it’s physical. My chest feels tight, my stomach churns, my skin feels too thin. This is not grief in the abstract. This is grief in a pressurised cabin, with nowhere to run.

And here’s what I wish I’d known before this day:
The “worst day” won’t give you a warning. It will simply arrive, uninvited, in the middle of an ordinary moment — or, worse, in the middle of a situation you can’t step out of. That’s why you need to prepare for it.

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How to Prepare for the Worst Day

You can’t stop it. But you can plan for it. These are the anchors I wish I’d set before I took my seat today:

1. Have a grounding ritual
   Something small, portable, and yours. A song that pulls you back to calm. A smooth stone in your pocket. A phrase you repeat under your breath like a rope in the dark.
2. Carry a “rescue memory”
   Not the one that destroys you — the one that steadies you. A moment with them that makes you smile, even now. Something unshakably good.
3. Have an exit in your head
   Even if you can’t physically leave, have a mental place to go. Imagine a beach, a quiet garden, a mountain trail. Train your mind to walk there when you can’t walk away.
4. Give yourself permission to look strange
   If you need to close your eyes for two hours, hold your own hand, or stare out the window without speaking, do it. Survival beats appearances.
5. Tell one person
   Before you travel, before you go into a locked room, before you sit in a situation you can’t escape — tell one trusted person, “If I message you, I’m in trouble.” Worst days aren’t the time to be stoic.

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The Truth About the Worst Day

The worst day will make you believe you are back at the start. It will convince you that you have undone all your “progress.”
It hasn’t.

It’s just that grief, like the tide, comes back hard and high when it feels like it. You can’t stop the tide. But you can have a lifeboat ready.

Today, my lifeboat was the thought that this flight will land.
Not just the literal one I’m on now — but the long, hard, unending-feeling journey of mourning. I know there will be other flights, other days, other moments where I will sit in this kind of pain again. But they will also land. And I will step off.

The worst day is survivable. But only if you expect it.
And now you know it’s coming.

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I know that even in the most ordinary spaces — like an airline seat — love can create a world of its own.
Because of her, I learned that connection doesn’t need words, just the steady weight of a hand in yours, or the warmth of her palm on my thigh.
Because of her, even this worst day carries a sweetness inside it — proof that I once sat here with my best friend, my love, my home, at 30,000 feet, and the world really couldn’t touch us.

You Will Have the Best Day — And It Will Surprise You

Grief trains you to expect heaviness. To wake with a weight that doesn’t lift. To look for what is missing before you even look outside. That’s why the good days feel almost uninvited — as if they’ve slipped past grief’s guard and landed in your lap when you weren’t watching.

This one began with a long walk on the beach. The tide was out, leaving endless sand and a shimmer of water that stretched like a mirror into the horizon. Each step crunched and hissed, and for once my body didn’t feel like lead. The sea air filled my lungs in a way that felt like beginning again.

I wasn’t alone. Good company walked beside me — not trying to fix, not asking for explanations, just matching pace, shoulder to shoulder. Conversation rose and fell like the tide: sometimes laughter, sometimes silence, both equally welcome.

At one point I left the sand for the sea. The cold water shocked me awake, but then carried me, lifted me. Floating there, I felt something I hadn’t in weeks — not happiness, not joy, but a lightness. A reminder that my body was still alive, still capable of more than surviving.

We found a café afterwards, the kind with wooden tables, sandy floors, and food that tastes better because you’ve earned it. Lunch stretched long — stories shared, bread passed across the table, the kind of simple abundance that doesn’t need decoration.

It may not have been the “best day” of my life. That title belongs elsewhere, in memories I carry with me. But it was a day to remember. A day when I could see, just faintly, that a future was possible.

Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I notice these days. I let them count. I don’t dismiss them as ordinary. She taught me that beauty often hides in simplicity — in a walk, a swim, a shared meal. And even now, when grief is sharp, I can feel her reminding me: this, too, is worth remembering.

“They didn’t mean to hurt me. But they did.”

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Introduction: The Unexpected Hurt

Grief has a way of exposing you — raw, skinless, open to the world. And when you’re in that space, even the smallest touch can hurt. Especially when it comes in the form of words, messages, invitations, or jokes that aren’t meant to be cruel but land like knives anyway.

It’s not always the loud, obvious betrayals that get to you. Sometimes it’s the gentle, well-meaning phrase. The silence where there should have been a word. The invitation that includes you but reminds you more deeply than ever that the person you love is no longer here.

People don’t know what to say to someone who is mourning. That’s just the truth of it. But the real challenge is what they do say — because in the awkwardness and uncertainty, they say things that hurt more than they’ll ever understand.

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The Comment That Stung: “Birthday Parties Are Just Like Funerals”

One morning, while walking the Camino, a message arrived. A friend — perhaps trying to make a thoughtful comparison — said:

“Birthday parties are just like funerals. They’re both celebrations.”

I stopped in my tracks. That sentence, probably written without much thought, stung like salt in an open wound. It tried to reduce death and life to the same thing — and in doing so, erased the agony of the loss.

It’s these moments, these throwaway comments, that bring you to your knees — not because they’re cruel, but because they are so disconnected from the emotional weight you carry. It reminds you of how alone you really are in this experience, how misunderstood grief can be by those who haven’t walked through it.

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The Hollow Where Her Name Should Be

Another example came in the form of a family invitation. It read, “The whole family is invited,” and I knew I was meant to feel included. I knew the intention was kind.

But Angé’s name wasn’t there.

And where her name should have been — where it always used to be — was now just a space. An empty space. A hollow.

Maybe they didn’t notice. But I did. I saw the blank spot like a flashing light. It wasn’t just a forgotten name. It was the loud, echoing silence of someone who should still be there.

It’s not that I don’t want to be with her family. But without her, it’s no longer the same. Her absence is louder than their welcome. The weight of going without her is sometimes too much to carry — especially when everyone else has already adjusted to the new version of the family, and you’re still holding space for the one who’s missing.

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Jokes That Cut

People sometimes try to lighten the mood with jokes. But mourning doesn’t work like that.

• “So, what are you going to do about sex now that you’re single again?”

• “You still sleeping in that double bed, or did you downsize yet?”

They say it with a grin, as if making light of something uncomfortable is somehow helpful. But it isn’t. You want to scream: Do you understand what I’ve lost?

These are the moments that leave you stunned, unsure whether to laugh along just to escape the awkwardness, or to walk away and preserve your own dignity.

Humor can be a lifeline. But not all humor heals. Sometimes, it reopens the wound.

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Empty Promises and Hollow Gestures

Then there are the promises people make — the vague commitments to “catch up soon,” “do something together,” or “be there if you need anything.”

Most of the time, they don’t mean harm. But they also don’t mean much at all.

And it’s not that you expect everyone to show up every time. But when they don’t — when the promise fades into silence — it reinforces the feeling that you’re walking through this alone.

Even worse are the people who make excuses on behalf of others:

• “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

• “She just didn’t know what to say.”

That may all be true. But those explanations don’t soothe the sting. They simply dismiss it.

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Why It Hurts So Much

So why does this hurt so badly?

Because you are already tender. Already broken open. You’re holding your grief together with tissue and tape. And the world keeps poking at it with blunt fingers, thinking they’re offering comfort.

It hurts because it reminds you how invisible your pain is. How much effort you put into just surviving the day. And how easily people can miss that. Or ignore it. Or talk over it.

And it hurts because you want to be seen. You want someone to understand that a simple sentence, or the absence of one, can change the whole tone of your day.

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So What Do You Do?

You can’t control what others say or do. But you can create strategies for how you respond.

1. Pause Before You React

Give yourself a moment. Let the initial hurt settle before you speak or respond. A hurtful message or comment doesn’t need an instant reply.

2. Talk to a Friend

Phone a friend. Text someone who understands. Say, “Can you believe someone said this to me today?” The act of saying it out loud often helps reduce its sting. Being heard can be healing.

3. Journal It

Write the comment down. Write what you felt. Let it out of your system. Sometimes that’s all it takes — to acknowledge it and move on.

4. Confront with Compassion

If the relationship matters and you believe the person would be open, gently tell them:

• “I know you meant well, but that comment really hurt.”

• “I’m grieving. That joke didn’t land well for me.”

Give them a chance to learn. Some will. Some won’t.

5. Decide Who Deserves Access

Not everyone earns the right to be close to your vulnerable self. Protect your energy. Choose wisely who you let in.

6. Build Emotional Armor

This is not about becoming cold or shut down. It’s about recognizing when you need to shield your heart. Some comments don’t deserve your emotional investment. Not every wound needs to be opened.

7. Apply the Plaster

Think of it like a small cut. You don’t need stitches, but you do need care. You need to say to yourself, “That hurt. But I’ll put a plaster on my heart. I’ll keep going.”

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Compassion for the Clumsy

Here’s the hard truth: most people don’t know how to talk to someone who is grieving. They fumble. They freeze. They use clichés. They try to lighten the mood with humor that doesn’t land.

And while that doesn’t excuse the pain they cause, it helps explain it.

When you’re able, when you’ve got the strength, try to extend grace. Not for their sake — for yours. Carrying bitterness only adds weight to your already-heavy load.

That said, grace doesn’t mean silence. You can still draw a boundary. You can still say, “That was not okay.” You can still walk away from people who consistently make your grief harder.

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Your Pain is Real — Even When Others Can’t See It

The world moves on so quickly. People expect you to bounce back, to be strong, to laugh at jokes and show up to events. They don’t see the full story — the slow mornings, the crying in the car, the empty seat next to you at dinner.

So when someone says something insensitive, it’s not just the words — it’s what those words fail to recognize. It’s what they erase.

Your pain is real. Your grief is valid. And just because others don’t see the wound doesn’t mean it’s not there.

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Reflective Questions

1. What’s one thing someone said after your loss that really hurt you?

2. Did you respond at the time? If not, do you wish you had?

3. Who are the people in your life who say things that make you feel safe?

4. What is one boundary you could set the next time someone is unintentionally hurtful?

5. When people say, “Let me know if you need anything,” what do you really wish they’d do?

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Because of Angé…

Because of Angé, I’ve learned that the quietest moments often carry the most weight. When she was around, she didn’t try to fix pain with words. She just was there. Present. Listening. Holding space.

Now, in her absence, I notice even more how many people talk without thinking. Joke without care. Offer promises they won’t keep.

And in those moments, I ask myself:

What would Angé do?

She’d pause. She’d breathe. She’d put a gentle hand on my shoulder and say, “Come. Let’s not let that steal today from us.”

And so I try. I put the plaster on my heart. And I walk on.

A Private Kind of Grief

There are some losses in mourning that people rarely talk about — not out of shame, but because they are so deeply personal, private, and hard to explain without sounding selfish or trivial. But they are not trivial. They are very, very real.

One of those losses is the death of your sexual partner — the person who touched your skin, who knew your body, and who made you feel attractive, wanted, known. The person who gave you the safety of a shared bed, the comfort of a spoon, the intimacy of a gaze that lingered long after the world stopped noticing you. When that person dies, it is not just emotional closeness that vanishes. It’s also sensual, physical, embodied intimacy.

And that loss is hauntingly silent. It lives in the bed, the bathroom, the bedroom door that doesn’t close the same way anymore. It pulses in your hands and in the absence of hands on you.

I think we need to talk about it.

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Touch Is Not Just Sexual

Let’s begin by acknowledging something important: sexual intimacy is not only about sex. It’s about the way you brush past one another in the kitchen. It’s the squeeze of a shoulder while you’re working at your computer. The long bath together. The quick slap on the bum. The morning ritual of pulling each other close, even if it’s just for ten seconds before rolling out of bed. It’s skin-on-skin. It’s warmth and comfort. It’s presence.

That presence is now gone. And with it, the skin hunger begins.

There is a physical ache for the kind of touch only they could give. Not a hug from a friend. Not a supportive hand on the shoulder from your children. But the closeness of a partner. The one who held you in ways no one else did. That ache becomes chronic. A low, dull pain that doesn’t scream — it just lingers. Quietly. Daily. Nightly.

And nobody talks about it. But maybe we should.

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The Loss of Desire and the Fear of Its Return

For some people, the death of a partner is also the death of desire. Not permanently — but for a time. You feel disconnected from your own body. You’re grieving. You’re numb. The idea of wanting sex, or being wanted, feels impossible, or even disloyal.

And yet… sometimes, surprisingly, the desire returns — maybe not for a specific person, but for touch, closeness, to be seen again in that way. And that brings its own guilt. You might ask yourself:

• Is it too soon?

• Am I betraying their memory?

• What will others think?

• What does it mean if I want to feel pleasure again?

These are hard questions. But mourning does not mean the death of your body or your future. It only means you are now living with absence — and figuring out how to carry that absence forward while staying alive yourself.

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The Empty Bed

Perhaps the hardest part is nighttime.

The emptiness of the bed is a scream of its own.

You reach out without thinking — and touch nothing. You shift in your sleep — and the warmth is gone. You wake from a dream, aroused or afraid, and there’s no one there to respond, no one to hold you down or draw you close.

You miss the shared rituals — brushing teeth side by side, undressing while chatting, falling into familiar postures. You miss the smell of them, the comfort of their weight on the mattress. You miss being desired. You miss desiring.

And the worst part is: there’s no easy way to fill that space. Casual touch doesn’t satisfy. And yet, to share it with someone else feels like a betrayal — or, at the very least, unfamiliar and strange.

So you lie in the quiet and you ache.

And then, eventually, you sleep.

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The Shame of Talking About It

Let’s talk honestly: many people feel embarrassed to admit this kind of grief. They’ll talk about the funeral. They’ll talk about the tears. They’ll talk about anniversaries and ashes and paperwork.

But they won’t talk about missing sex.

Or longing for skin.

Or crying in the bath because no one has touched them in weeks.

Or waking up aroused and angry because the only person they want is gone.

Or fearing that no one will ever touch them again.

But you are allowed to grieve this too. This is not dirty. This is not selfish. This is not something to be ashamed of.

It is a vital part of your humanity — and of your grief.

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When and If the Time Comes Again

There may come a time — quietly, softly — when you want intimacy again. That might be years from now, or sooner than you expect. And when that time comes, you may feel deeply conflicted.

• Is it okay to date again?

• What if I just want sex?

• What if I just want touch?

• What if I want love but never that kind of closeness again?

There are no rules. And you are not obligated to replace what you had — nor to avoid it forever. You are allowed to rediscover your body. You are allowed to find new ways of being touched, being loved, or simply being held. You are allowed to take your time. And you are allowed to never want it again.

Mourning is not a moral equation. It is a messy, beautiful attempt to live after loss. That includes your sexual self. That includes your sensual body.

And if one day, you allow someone to lie beside you again — that will not erase what you had. It only means you are choosing to live.

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Navigating Loneliness, Not Just Lust

For many, it’s not just about missing sex — it’s about missing the companionship, the warmth, the shared rituals, the safe laughter in bed, the silly moments before sleep. That’s a form of intimacy that cannot be bought or rushed.

And in the absence of that intimacy, some mourners take risks they never would have considered before. Casual encounters. Late-night messages. Hasty connections. Sometimes, it’s comforting. Sometimes, it’s a mistake. But either way, it’s a response to loneliness more than lust.

If that happens to you — be kind to yourself. Don’t judge yourself too harshly. Try to be safe, emotionally and physically. Try not to chase connection just to avoid pain. But also don’t punish yourself for needing something only humans can give: to be close.

You are human. You are grieving. And you are allowed to want.

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Guarding Your Heart While Missing Touch

While physical touch and intimacy are important — and the hunger for them is real — you must also guard your heart.

In this vulnerable time, attraction can be deceptively easy. When someone is kind, attentive, and generous with their time, it can stir emotions you haven’t felt in months, maybe years. The warmth of their voice, the way they listen, the small gestures of care — these can feel like more than kindness.

If you are lonely, that kindness can feel like love.

If you are aching for touch, that presence can feel like desire.

But sometimes, it is simply kindness. And you must learn to see it for what it is before you hand over your heart.

When we are mourning, we are tender. Our guard is down. And the comfort of someone who “is there” can quickly turn into dependency — not because they are the right person, but because they are present. This is what people call a rebound, and in grief it can be even more intense.

So be deliberate.

Ask yourself:

• Am I drawn to this person, or to the comfort they give?

• Do I want them, or do I want to escape my loneliness?

• Am I making choices from longing, or from clarity?

You are not wrong for wanting affection, attention, or love. But in these months, be cautious about where you give your loyalty, your emotions, and your trust. Protecting your heart now does not mean closing it forever. It means keeping it safe until you can open it from a place of strength — not from the ache of absence.

That said, do not close yourself off to the possibility of a strong attachment. It may well be that the person who has been supporting you — or who has come into your life during this time — is the right person for you. It might be something worth exploring. If you feel that connection, if you sense the possibility of love, take it slow. Be intentional. Don’t dismiss all emotion simply because you are mourning. There may be opportunities for love and companionship that you don’t want to miss. The key is to move slowly, with care, and to let clarity grow before commitment.

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Practical Suggestions for Managing the Loss of Intimacy

If you’re in this space right now — feeling lonely, aching for touch, but unsure of what to do — here are a few thoughts:

• Name it: Say it aloud — “I miss being touched.” The truth loses some of its power when spoken.

• Safe physical contact: Consider massages, acupuncture, spa treatments — something that brings healthy, healing touch.

• Weighted blankets: They don’t replace a person, but they can bring comfort.

• Physical activity: Yoga, swimming, even just stretching — moving your body can help it feel real and cared for.

• Journaling your body’s grief: Write about what you miss. Be specific. Be honest. Let the grief be felt.

• Companionship alternatives: A shared home, a pet, or even online dating — not necessarily for romance, but for touchpoints of connection.

• Exploring your body again: When you’re ready — reintroduce yourself to sensuality and pleasure. You’re still allowed.

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Final Thoughts: This, Too, Is Mourning

You are not broken for missing sex.

You are not weak for missing touch.

You are not disloyal for wondering if you’ll ever be held that way again.

You are simply a human being — mourning the totality of love. And that includes the body. That includes the bed. That includes the deep, wordless knowing between two people who once shared everything — even their skin.

Let yourself grieve this part, too. Let yourself speak of it. Let yourself, one day, love your body again — not as a betrayal of the past, but as a profound continuation of what it means to be alive.

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I learned that intimacy is never just physical — it is in the laughter under the covers, the quiet talks before sleep, the way a hand on your back can steady your whole day. She showed me that touch is both comfort and connection, that affection can be playful and grounding all at once. And because of her, I now know that guarding my heart doesn’t mean closing it. It means holding space for the love we had while leaving room for whatever love may one day come.

Six weeks. It’s been six weeks since Angé died. Long enough to feel the empty space beside me in every bed I lie in, every café I sit in, every walk I take. Long enough to realise that the absence of her voice doesn’t get quieter — it just changes tone. And long enough to start noticing something I didn’t expect:

I don’t trust myself to make good decisions.

Not always. Not right now.

For someone who used to pride himself on quick thinking, on pragmatic action, on reading the signs and knowing what to do — this has come as a bit of a shock. I find myself frozen over small choices, like where to go for dinner or whether to respond to a message. Or worse — I’ve made decisions that, in hindsight, were outright foolish. Extra drinks I didn’t need. Expensive items I wouldn’t normally buy. Commitments I said yes to that drained me. Invitations I declined that may have helped me.

And the most frustrating part? I often knew they were the wrong decisions — while I was making them.

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1. The Distorted Lens of Mourning

Grief distorts perception. It filters the world through a thick fog — what once was clear becomes confusing, and what once was easy becomes exhausting.

It’s not that I’ve suddenly lost intelligence or maturity. It’s that the criteria I use to make decisions have been rewritten by loss. Instead of weighing logic, cost, practicality, or long-term outcomes, I’ve found myself weighing only one thing:

Will this ease the pain, even for a moment?

That’s a dangerous compass.

When your heart is broken wide open, anything that looks like comfort — a purchase, a drink, a trip, a new experience, even a relationship — can look like the answer. But the pursuit of momentary relief often comes at the cost of long-term regret.

There’s a deep loneliness in grief that makes you want to fill the empty spaces with something. Sometimes it’s things. Sometimes it’s people. Sometimes it’s just noise. And sometimes, in that haze, you tell yourself: “Why not? Life is short.” Which is true — but also a terrible excuse when you’re already hurting.

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2. Emotional Override: When Logic Loses the Vote

I remember standing in a store in Prague, looking at a leather bag I absolutely did not need. It was beautiful. Expensive. Unnecessary. And yet, in that moment, the thought in my head was: You’ve suffered enough. Just get it.

It wasn’t about the bag. It was about trying to feel alive. About trying to gift myself something, anything, that said: You still matter. You still have pleasure. You’re still here.

The decision wasn’t made with logic. It was made by emotion. Emotion that had taken the wheel and turned logic into a helpless passenger.

It doesn’t make me stupid. It makes me human. But it also makes me vulnerable.

Grief can trigger an emotional override that shuts down the executive functions we usually rely on — reason, delayed gratification, foresight. Your inner decision-making committee has been hijacked by the part of you that’s in freefall, that just wants relief.

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3. The Two-Part Mind: Mourner and Manager

I’ve come to think of grief as having two minds:

• The Mourner — deeply emotional, in pain, reactive, impulsive, seeking comfort or escape.

• The Manager — rational, measured, experienced, pragmatic, long-term thinker.

During grief, the Mourner often shouts louder than the Manager. And when you’re in deep pain, it makes sense that you listen to the voice shouting for immediate comfort over the quiet, tired voice reminding you to be sensible.

But the key is to recognise which one is speaking.

Sometimes I’ve had to literally pause and ask myself: “Is this the Mourner making this decision? Or the Manager?” If it’s the Mourner, that doesn’t mean I ignore it — but it does mean I try to give myself space before acting.

Impulse + pain = poor decisions. But awareness + pain = space to breathe.

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4. Decision Fatigue: When Everything Feels Too Much

There’s another side to this, too. The opposite of impulse is immobility. And grief gives you both.

I’ve sat for hours trying to decide something small. What shoes to pack. Whether to go out or stay in. Whether to return a call. It feels absurd — I’ve run companies, made payroll, handled crises. Why can’t I decide what to do this afternoon?

Because grief is exhausting. Every decision costs more energy. Every choice feels heavier. And behind every option is the whisper: Would Angé have liked this? What would she say? Would this make her proud?

That inner dialogue turns even simple decisions into emotional minefields.

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5. The Money Trap

One of the strangest — and most expensive — effects of mourning has been my relationship with money. I’ve caught myself buying things I didn’t need, things that don’t match my values, things I would never have purchased six months ago.

Why?

Because sometimes the pain is so overwhelming, it tricks you into believing that consumption will fix it.

That new shirt? That dinner out? That extra ticket? That unnecessary upgrade? It’s not about the object or the cost. It’s about chasing a brief feeling of control, joy, or reward.

And sometimes, it gets out of hand.

I remember a dinner in Prague. I thought, I’ll treat myself tonight. A beautiful setting — a boat restaurant on the river, a window seat, perfect lighting, calm atmosphere. I ordered a glass of wine, but the waiter gently nudged me: “Why not a bottle?” I was alone. I didn’t need a bottle. But I was in that vulnerable I deserve this state — I said yes.

Then came the main course. I asked for a steak. The waiter told me they only had one cut available, and again, without asking any further questions, I just said yes. The food was good. The wine — some 2017 vintage I wouldn’t remember the name of — was smooth and expensive. And I enjoyed it.

But I ignored the small voice that said: Ian, just check the price. Just ask. I didn’t. And when the bill arrived, it cost me R6,500.

Yes, I was in Europe. Yes, the exchange rate made it worse. But it was a stupid decision — made because I was trying to buy relief. I told myself I was honouring Angé by treating myself, but the truth is: I was in pain and I was trying to medicate it with indulgence.

I walked away from that dinner feeling more alone than when I arrived — and poorer.

These moments pile up. You chase comfort through money, but they don’t fix anything. They just delay the grief for a few more hours and add new problems to manage.

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6. When to Say Yes, When to Say No

Another surprising symptom: saying yes to things that deplete me, and no to things that might have helped me heal.

I’ve agreed to events, conversations, even trips — because I didn’t want to disappoint others, or because I was chasing distraction, or because I didn’t trust my instincts anymore.

And I’ve said no to invitations that might have brought joy, or connection, because I was scared, tired, or just didn’t feel “up to it.”

Grief warps your intuition. It confuses your sense of what’s nourishing and what’s draining. You need to rebuild that compass — slowly and gently — by learning what feels right after the fact, and adjusting next time.

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6a. You’re Making Decisions Alone Now

There’s another layer to this that many don’t talk about — and it took me by surprise:

You’re now making decisions alone.

That sounds obvious, but it changes everything.

When you’ve lost a partner, a parent, a sibling, or a child — someone who used to help you decide, whether directly or subtly — you lose your sounding board. You lose the nod across the table. The shared glance that meant: “Yes, this is the right thing.” You lose the late-night debates over pros and cons. The comfort of being able to say, “What do you think?”

And you’re left with only your own voice — which, in grief, is shaky at best.

Suddenly you’re navigating choices that used to be shared. You don’t just feel the weight of the decision — you feel the weight of being alone in making it. And that can lead to overcompensation, hesitation, or reckless abandon.

You either lean too heavily on treating yourself, or you retreat entirely from taking action, because the confidence is gone.

It’s a good reminder to give yourself more grace — not because you’re incapable, but because the whole landscape of decision-making has changed.

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7. You’re Not Going Mad — You’re Mourning

There’s a cruel trick our minds play when we’re grieving: they make us question our own sanity.

When you can’t make decisions, when you forget things, when you feel inconsistent or irrational — it’s easy to think: Am I losing it? Is this who I am now?

But grief isn’t madness. It’s overload. And it’s temporary.

The mourning mind is flooded. Your bandwidth is reduced. The pain in your heart and gut hijacks your usual systems. But that doesn’t mean they’re gone forever.

You’re not going senile. You’re not becoming stupid. You’re adjusting to the aftershock of loss. And that adjustment takes longer than anyone expects.

Especially yourself.

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8. Strategies That Help

Here are a few strategies I’ve started to use — not always perfectly, but they help:

• Pause before purchase: If I want to buy something big, I try to wait 24 hours. Often, the urgency fades.

• Name the voice: I ask myself — is this decision coming from pain, love, or logic?

• Ask someone trusted: Sometimes I run a decision past a friend. Not for permission, just for perspective.

• Journal the impulse: Writing down what I want to do gives me a chance to explore the emotion underneath.

• Accept mistakes: I’ve done some dumb things. I’ll do more. That doesn’t mean I’ve failed. It means I’m grieving.

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9. Long-Term Consequences, Short-Term Grace

Mourning is not an excuse to ruin your life — but it is a reason to offer yourself more grace.

You will make some bad calls. You will waste some money. You will hurt someone unintentionally. You will agree to something you regret.

But that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re in transition.

Give yourself short-term grace without ignoring long-term consequences. And when you do make a poor decision, try not to follow it with guilt or shame. Follow it with reflection — and maybe a little course correction.

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10. The Memory of Angé

Angé was always good at helping me think clearly. She had a way of grounding things, of asking one or two sharp questions that made the noise disappear.

Now I have to imagine her voice.

Sometimes I can still hear her in my head: “Why on earth are you buying that?” Or “Don’t say yes just to be polite.” Or “It’s okay to do nothing today.”

So maybe that’s part of the new decision-making process. Not just weighing logic, or emotion — but also weighing love. The kind of love that endures. The kind of love that wants you to be okay, even when the one who gave it is gone.

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Reflective Questions

1. Can you remember a decision you made recently that was driven more by pain than by clarity?

2. What purchases, actions, or commitments have you made in mourning that didn’t feel true to yourself?

3. How could you build a “pause system” to help you make wiser decisions, even during deep grief?

4. Who are the people you trust to give you perspective without judgment?

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I stop now before saying yes — and ask, “Is this for me, or for someone else’s expectations?” Because of her, I’m learning not just to survive without her — but to trust myself again. To rebuild the part of me that can say no. Or yes. Or wait. Because of her, I’m learning that the person who loved me would want me to lead my life — not lose it in the decisions I make.

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.

There’s a silence that only the grieving understand.

It’s not just the absence of noise. It’s the absence of someone.

The way they moved in the room. The smell of their soap. The small noises of comfort — cutlery in the drawer, a cough from the lounge, the hum of shared life. The way the kettle was always reboiled unnecessarily, or how their footsteps had a rhythm that you didn’t know you depended on.

When you live alone after the death of a partner — or the end of a relationship, or the collapse of a shared life — you are not just facing an empty room.

You are facing a mirror. One that reflects everything you were, everything you’ve lost, and everything you’re not sure how to be yet.

This chapter isn’t about how to cook for one. It’s not about learning to clean the gutters or set a timer on your geyser. It’s about learning to sit with the silence. To understand it. To make peace with it. And eventually, to grow into it.

Because living alone isn’t just logistical.

It’s emotional. Deeply emotional.

And unless you do the emotional work, loneliness doesn’t just linger — it settles into your bones.

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1. The Difference Between Solitude and Loneliness

The first piece of emotional work is learning to tell the difference between being alone and feeling lonely.

• Being alone is a physical state.

• Feeling lonely is an emotional wound.

You can sit in a room filled with laughter and still feel completely unseen. Or you can be hiking a long trail by yourself and feel peaceful, centred, and connected to the world. Loneliness is not always about company. It’s about disconnection.

To live alone and not be lonely, you have to learn how to connect inward.

This means befriending your own company.

Becoming someone you don’t mind spending time with.

It’s not automatic. It takes practice. You may have to:

• Turn off the TV and sit in silence, even when it’s uncomfortable.

• Speak to yourself with the same kindness you’d offer to someone grieving.

• Take yourself out — for walks, coffee, movies, or even just to sit in the sun — and reclaim space as your own, not as a void.

There is dignity in solitude. There is growth in learning to stand beside yourself, not outside of yourself.

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2. Grieving in Silence: How the Walls Hold Your Pain

When you live alone, your grief often echoes.

There’s no witness. No one who sees the tears fall into your cereal bowl. No one to notice that you haven’t changed your clothes today. No one to comment on how quiet the house has become — except you, whispering it into the silence.

In a shared home, grief has natural interruptions: someone asking what’s for supper, someone needing the car keys, someone putting a cup of tea in your hand. Alone, grief can spiral unchecked. It grows louder. Or it hides and makes you quieter.

This can lead to:

• Bottling your emotions, not because you’re strong, but because no one is asking.

• Losing track of days and feelings, blending into a numb haze.

• Feeling unseen — as if your grief doesn’t matter, or worse, as if you don’t matter anymore.

That’s why emotional work is non-negotiable when living alone.

You must build intentional spaces for grief:

• Write to your person. Use a notebook or voice notes. Say what you would’ve said over dinner.

• Light a candle every evening and sit beside it, even if just for two minutes.

• Frame a picture. Create a tiny altar. Let them remain a presence, not just a memory.

• Speak out loud to a trusted friend, therapist, or coach. Even one good conversation a week can be a lifeline.

Give your emotions somewhere to go.

Let the silence be a container, not a prison.

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3. Making Peace With the Quiet

At first, the quiet is unbearable.

You walk in the door and the silence feels like it roars.

No laughter. No footsteps. No “Where did you put the charger?”

It feels like standing on a mountaintop in fog — disoriented and alone.

But over time, and with care, the quiet can soften. It can become a balm rather than a blade. You begin to hear your own heartbeat again. Your own thoughts. Your own presence.

The work here is not to fight the quiet, but to let it speak.

Quiet is where your intuition lives.

It’s where your memories stop ambushing you and start arriving as visitors.

It’s where you learn to listen — not to the world, but to yourself.

To make peace with the quiet:

• Replace fear with breath. When it gets too quiet, breathe through the panic. You are not in danger — you are alone, not abandoned.

• Don’t fill every moment with noise. Music, podcasts, TV — they’re okay. But learn to turn them off sometimes, too.

• Walk slowly through your home. Touch the walls. Feel the space. Let it be yours now — not a hollow shell, but a place of your choosing.

You don’t need to be a hermit. You just need to stop running from yourself.

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4. Naming the Ache: Mourning the Daily Intimacies

The moments that undo us are rarely dramatic.

They are:

• Reaching out in the night and feeling an empty space.

• Laughing at something on your phone and turning to share it — then remembering.

• Seeing their glasses still on the bedside table, or their email still in your inbox.

These are daily intimacies. And when you live alone, there’s no buffer. No one to say, “I miss that too.” No one to fill in the gaps with noise or distraction.

You feel each absence in its rawest form.

This is emotional labour.

You have to name the ache to begin understanding it.

Some people find comfort in rituals:

• Saying “Good morning” to a photo.

• Leaving their favourite book on the shelf.

• Cooking their favourite meal on a special day — or avoiding it for a while, until you’re ready.

Others need change:

• Move the toothbrush.

• Pack away the slippers.

• Rearrange the furniture to claim the space anew.

There is no right way. But there is your way.

And it matters.

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5. The Dangerous Spiral: When Loneliness Becomes Isolation

Loneliness is not a failure.

It’s a signal. Like hunger or thirst.

But if you ignore it — or drown it — it can quietly become something more harmful: isolation.

Isolation creeps in with unwashed hair, cancelled plans, too many meals eaten in bed.

It thrives on secrecy and shame.

And it can be deadly, especially for those in mourning.

Living alone means becoming the guardian of your own mental and emotional health.

No one is coming to knock on your door unless you let them in.

Build safeguards:

• Make one meaningful social connection a week — a phone call, a walk, even a message to a friend.

• Leave the house at least once for something that is not essential. A walk to the corner shop. A museum. A bookshop.

• Schedule joy. Even small joy. Light a candle. Watch a bird. Put on your favourite song. Read a poem out loud.

If you start to feel invisible, don’t wait for someone to rescue you.

Tell someone.

Your pain is not shameful. Your loneliness is not weakness.

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6. Online Dating: Curiosity, Caution, and the Emotional Tightrope

One day, your finger may hover over a dating app.

It might surprise you.

You might giggle. Or cry. Or feel like you’re cheating on a ghost.

Let that be okay.

You are not replacing anyone. You are not betraying anyone.

You are living.

Grief does not forbid curiosity.

And loneliness is not solved by romance — but sometimes, a little connection softens the day.

But proceed gently.

You may not be looking for love. You might be looking for a smile. A conversation. A flicker of hope that someone still sees you.

Tips if you try online dating:

• Be honest: “I’m recently widowed. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. But I’m here.”

• Don’t let your grief be a secret — or your whole story.

• Step away if it starts to feel like pressure or performance.

• Talk to someone about your feelings — the guilt, the excitement, the awkwardness.

You are not required to find a new partner.

But you are allowed to explore the world again — gently, bravely, at your own pace.

Online dating isn’t the path for everyone. But for some, it’s a reminder that life is still happening — and you are still part of it.

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7. Reclaiming Selfhood

One of the strangest parts of grief is how it eats your identity.

Suddenly you are “the one who lost someone.” You are no longer spoken about in terms of your humour or your cooking or your morning runs — but in terms of absence.

Living alone is your chance to reclaim that.

Ask yourself:

• What do I like when no one else is choosing with me?

• How do I spend Sunday morning if I’m not bending around someone else’s plans?

• Who am I when the room is mine?

This is not about erasing your past. It’s about growing roots again — not just in memory, but in the present.

You are more than their partner.

You are more than your grief.

You are still here. And becoming.

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8. You Will Still Feel Lonely Sometimes — And That’s Okay

Loneliness doesn’t vanish. It visits.

It shows up when you least expect it — standing in line at the post office, hearing your song on the radio, watching a couple across the street.

Let it visit. Don’t fear it.

Loneliness is a teacher.

It shows you what you miss. What you value. What mattered.

And when you can sit beside it without panic — when you can say, “Ah, here you are again,” — you know you’re growing stronger.

You don’t need to cure loneliness.

You just need to know it’s not permanent. And it’s not shameful.

You are allowed to feel lonely and loved at the same time.

You are allowed to miss them — and still laugh out loud.

You are allowed to sit in your own company — and feel whole.

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I downloaded a dating app and deleted it three days later — and laughed at myself.

Because of Angé, I sat on a hill and remembered what it meant to be alone but not unloved.

Because of Angé, I now know that missing someone and living fully are not contradictions.

Because of Angé, I sometimes talk to strangers — and imagine her winking as if to say, “Go on, live a little.”

Because of Angé, I reclaim my space. I learn my own rhythms. I light candles without waiting for a special occasion.

Because of Angé, I live alone — but not in the shadow of absence. I live with presence.

When your partner dies — or even when you lose a child, or someone else you’ve shared life with — the world changes. Not just emotionally, but practically. Daily life rearranges itself, and you are suddenly left to live it alone.

But here’s something we need to talk about right at the start:

Living alone can mean very different things to different people. Some see it as a welcome independence. Others see it as an unwanted reality.

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Part Zero: Living Alone — A Choice or a Challenge?

For Some, It’s a Welcome Independence

Some people, even after a great loss, genuinely enjoy living alone.

They value their own space. They love the freedom of setting their own routines without compromise. They relish the quiet, the control over their environment, and the ability to make decisions without checking in with someone else.

If you’re one of these people, you might see the transition to living alone as a natural extension of who you already are. Yes, you’ll feel the sadness of absence, but solitude itself is not frightening — it’s familiar, even comforting.

You might:

• Rearrange the house to exactly your taste.

• Wake and sleep on your own schedule.

• Enjoy hobbies without interruption.

• Make spontaneous decisions without negotiation.

• Keep your home exactly as tidy or as relaxed as you prefer.

For this group, living alone can feel like coming home to yourself — even if the circumstances for doing so are painful.

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For Others, It’s an Unwanted Reality

Then there are those who have never truly lived alone before.

They’ve always shared a home — with parents, siblings, roommates, partners, or children. For them, the silence can feel oppressive. The absence of another person in the house is not just noticeable — it’s overwhelming.

This group often feels the loss not only in their hearts but in their daily rhythms. They may miss the sound of a kettle boiling while someone else talks in the kitchen, the presence of another pair of shoes by the door, or the habit of asking, “What’s for dinner?”

If this is you, living alone is not just about being without your person — it’s about learning an entirely new way of existing. It requires building structure, finding purpose, and creating comfort in a space that once felt alive because someone else was in it.

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Why This Distinction Matters

Understanding which camp you naturally fall into is important.

If you enjoy living alone, your focus will be on maintaining that independence while still nurturing connection with others.

If you find living alone hard, your focus will be on creating rhythms, companionship, and purpose so the emptiness doesn’t take over.

Either way, this chapter is about making living alone not just bearable, but meaningful — whether it’s your natural preference or a skill you need to develop from scratch.

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Part One: The Logistics of Loneliness

Food: Cooking for One

This is harder than it looks. It’s not just about smaller portions — it’s about motivation. It’s about fighting the internal voice that says, “Why bother?”

Here’s the answer: because you matter. Because nourishment is one of the first steps back to dignity. Because feeding yourself is an act of care, even if no one else is watching.

• If you enjoy solitude: Mealtimes can be a celebration of freedom — experimenting with recipes, eating at unusual times, or enjoying a meal exactly how you want it.

• If you struggle with solitude: Mealtimes can feel flat without conversation or company. This is where inviting a friend once a week, joining a cooking class, or eating while on a video call with a loved one can make a difference.

Practical tips:

• Cook in batches — make two or three meals at a time and freeze portions.

• Choose recipes you love, not just quick fixes.

• Occasionally set the table nicely, even if it’s just for you.

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Money: Solo Finances

Finances shift dramatically after loss. Suddenly one income may have to stretch further. Joint accounts may need adjusting. Subscriptions and expenses may no longer make sense.

• For independents: This can be an opportunity to simplify and control spending exactly as you wish.

• For those new to solo living: It can feel intimidating, especially if your partner previously handled the finances.

What to do:

• Review all financial commitments.

• Rework a budget based on current income or pension.

• Cancel unneeded services and automatic payments.

• Meet with a financial advisor, if possible.

• Update wills, insurance policies, and medical aid info.

Don’t let fear keep you from clarity. Taking control brings a sense of calm and safety.

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Evenings: The Hardest Hours

From 7 PM to 11 PM — these hours can be the loneliest of the day.

• If you like living alone: These can be your golden hours — a time for reading, crafting, or diving into projects without distraction.

• If you dislike solitude: This is when the emptiness can hit hardest. The quiet can feel like it’s pressing in.

Try this:

• Watch a series or movie that’s just for you.

• Read in bed or in a corner set up with soft lighting and a blanket.

• Write. Journaling helps process the day.

• Phone a friend or family member just to chat.

• Work on a puzzle or craft project.

What matters most is intentionality — don’t just drift. Set an evening ritual, and repeat it.

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Part Two: Routines, Home, and Responsibilities

The New Daily To-Do List

Now you’re the only one checking the mail, cleaning the gutters, or dealing with the plumber.

• If you’re already comfortable alone: You might enjoy the independence of knowing you can handle your own space.

• If you’re new to it: You may need to learn practical skills you’ve never had to think about.

You may need to:

• Learn how to mow the lawn.

• Hire occasional help for things you can’t manage.

• Change lightbulbs, manage bills, maintain appliances.

• Keep up with your own health — dentist, doctor, optometrist.

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Time Management: Filling the Calendar

If you enjoy solitude, you might naturally fill your days with activities and hobbies.

If you struggle, you’ll need to plan deliberately so time doesn’t become an empty stretch.

Consider:

• Volunteering at a school, clinic, or charity.

• Starting a hobby group.

• Scheduling weekly outings.

• Signing up for a class.

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Part Three: You Don’t Have to Live Alone

You don’t have to live entirely alone — even if you enjoy it. Some choose house-shares for practical reasons, others for companionship.

Benefits:

• Company when you want it.

• Lower costs.

• Safety and support.

Tips:

• Be upfront about boundaries.

• Keep private space.

• Choose a housemate with compatible habits.

Example:

A woman in her seventies invited another widow to share her home. They kept their own routines but enjoyed shared evenings. Within weeks, the house felt warmer, and both felt safer.

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Part Four: Reclaiming Joy and Routine

Traveling Alone

For those who enjoy solitude, this can be exhilarating. You set the pace, choose the itinerary, and follow your own mood.

For others, it may be daunting at first — but small steps help. Start with day trips, then short tours, and gradually build confidence.

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Creative Solitude: Finding a Hobby

Whether you crave peace or need distraction, hobbies keep you anchored.

Art, music, gardening, writing, photography — choose something that absorbs your focus.

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Redesigning the House

Make your space truly yours.

For independent types, this is exciting.

For others, it’s a way to reclaim control over a space that feels too empty. Paint, rearrange, add plants, create a reading nook — small changes can bring new life.

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Part Five: The Daily Checklist for Living Alone

Five essentials for everyone:

1. Eat one proper meal.

2. Move your body.

3. Connect with someone.

4. Do one chore.

5. Choose one joy.

These keep your life balanced whether you thrive in solitude or are learning to live with it.

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Part Six: Closing Advice for Both Paths

If You Love Living Alone — Preserving Your Freedom Without Becoming Isolated

Enjoy your independence, but guard against drifting into isolation. Make deliberate connections with friends, family, and community. Keep a few standing dates — a monthly dinner, a weekly call, a seasonal trip. Stay open to others while keeping the private space you value.

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If You Find Living Alone Hard — Turning Solitude Into a Friend

Solitude can feel like a stranger at first. Treat it gently. Fill it with small, positive routines, and give it time to become familiar. Celebrate tiny wins — a day where you felt comfortable in your own space, a night where the quiet felt peaceful rather than heavy. Over time, solitude can shift from an enemy to an friend

I remember lying on the bed one morning, maybe a week or so after Angé died, and I couldn’t get up.

Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I didn’t have things to do. But because my body had completely checked out.

I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t lost in a pool of grief.

I was just… done.

There was no fuel in the tank. My limbs felt like concrete. My stomach was churning, my head was pounding, and my mouth tasted like metal.

I hadn’t done anything extreme. I was just grieving.

But it felt like I had been run over.

This is the physical side of mourning no one talks about until you’re in it.

Mourning creates grief.

Grief creates pain.

And that pain seeps into your body.

It doesn’t always shout; sometimes it whispers through tension, through fatigue, through all those little aches and signals that say:

I am not okay.

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Grief Is Not Just Emotional

There’s this assumption that grief lives in the heart and the mind. That it’s emotional. That it’s about tears and loneliness and longing.

But grief is also biological. It’s physiological.

When you are grieving, your body is reacting to immense stress and trauma—whether you realize it or not.

Your body holds what your heart and mind are carrying.

This is not just poetic language. This is reality. Stress hormones spike. Your immune system becomes compromised. Your nervous system goes into a low-grade state of emergency that never quite shuts off.

And the result?

Your body starts screaming for help, even if your mind tells you you’re “coping.”

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What Does Grief Do to the Body?

Here are some of the physical symptoms that can—and often do—emerge during mourning:

• Exhaustion and fatigue: You’re tired all the time, even after a full night’s sleep (if you get any).

• Muscle weakness or heaviness: Your legs feel like lead, your arms like jelly.

• Twitches and spasms: Sudden movements, nerve flutters—especially around the eyes or fingers.

• Mouth ulcers and cold sores: Stress shows up in the mouth.

• Skin rashes or dryness: Your body starts showing physical signs of distress, especially if you’ve stopped caring about hydration or skincare.

• Sweaty palms and restlessness: You feel jittery, nervous, ungrounded.

• Stomach issues: Nausea, constipation, bloating, cramping, or appetite loss—or the opposite: emotional eating and bingeing.

• Headaches: The constant tension of carrying grief in your jaw, neck, and shoulders builds up.

• Weight fluctuations: Gaining or losing weight unintentionally due to appetite changes or erratic eating habits.

• Insomnia or oversleeping: Either you can’t sleep, or you use sleep to escape. Neither is particularly helpful long term.

• High blood pressure: Silent but dangerous. Mourning can elevate your BP without you noticing.

• Increased heart rate or chest pressure: Your grief mimics anxiety attacks—or even heart attacks.

• Lowered immunity: You’re getting sick more often, catching colds or infections you’d normally shrug off.

None of these are “dramatic.”

They are not figments of imagination.

They are your body’s way of saying: This hurts. I’m struggling.

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Go to the Doctor

If there’s one practical piece of advice I can offer in this chapter, it’s this:

Book a medical check-up after your person dies.

Not for them. For you.

Grief can be dangerous. There are known cases of people having stress-induced heart attacks after the death of a loved one. It’s called broken heart syndrome (or Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, if you want the medical name). And it’s real.

You don’t have to be old or already sick for grief to trigger something major in your system.

Get your blood pressure checked. Get a cholesterol test. Check your heart rate and blood sugar levels.

Talk to a GP or therapist.

Let someone professional put a stethoscope to your chest and tell you:

“You’re okay” — or — “Let’s do something now before this gets worse.”

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The Diet Trap — and How to Climb Out

When you’re grieving, food is rarely neutral.

You either stop eating altogether because nothing tastes good—or you start comfort eating like a freight train. Neither is ideal.

One starves your body of the nutrients it desperately needs.

The other loads you with sugar, salt, and carbs that worsen inflammation, fatigue, and mood crashes.

Grief eating is real. Grief starvation is real.

If you’re not eating enough:

• Keep easy, ready-to-eat foods in the fridge—boiled eggs, cheese cubes, cut-up fruit.

• Sip on smoothies or soups if chewing feels like too much effort.

• Eat with someone else whenever possible—company makes food more appealing.

If you’re overeating:

• Don’t ban your comfort foods completely—just make them part of a balanced plate.

• Try the “one good thing” rule: for every snack, add one fruit or vegetable.

• Keep portion sizes small but frequent so your blood sugar stays steady.

Sample grief-friendly meals:

• Toast with scrambled eggs and spinach

• Chicken or lentil soup with a slice of whole-grain bread

• Banana, peanut butter, and yoghurt smoothie

• Rice with stir-fried vegetables and an egg on top

• Porridge with honey and blueberries

Your goal is not perfection—it’s stability.

Food is one of the simplest ways to signal to your body, I am still looking after you.

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Moving Your Body — Even When You Don’t Want To

When you’re mourning, exercise can feel impossible. But you don’t need a gym membership or a fitness plan. You just need to move.

Gentle starts:

• Walk to the end of your street and back.

• Do five minutes of stretching in the morning.

• Put on a song you love and sway to it.

Why movement matters:

• It lowers stress hormones.

• It improves sleep quality.

• It boosts mood-regulating chemicals like serotonin.

• It reminds you that you still exist in a living body.

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The Power of Team Activities

Grief often isolates. Moving with others—whether it’s exercise or shared chores—pulls you back into the rhythm of life.

• Join a walking group or park run (you can walk, no need to run).

• Attend a community yoga class.

• Offer to help a friend in their garden.

• Join a cooking club—preparing and eating together is powerful grief medicine.

When you move or work alongside others, you’re not just rebuilding your physical health—you’re also reconnecting with the world that still wants you in it.

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Yoga, Meditation, and Massage — Calming the Grief Body

When you’re mourning, your nervous system is in a constant state of alert. Your heart races. Your breathing becomes shallow. Your shoulders creep up toward your ears and stay there for hours without you realising.

This is where yoga, meditation, and massage can become more than luxuries—they become part of your survival toolkit.

Yoga — Movement Meets Stillness

Yoga doesn’t have to mean folding yourself into impossible shapes. In grief, it’s less about flexibility and more about connection. Simple poses like Child’s Pose, Legs Up the Wall, or Cat-Cow can:

• Ease muscle tension in the back and neck.

• Improve breathing patterns disrupted by anxiety.

• Calm the nervous system so your mind slows down enough to rest.

If you can, attend a gentle or restorative yoga class. If that feels too public, search online for “yoga for grief” or “restorative yoga” and start with a ten-minute video at home.

Meditation — Sitting with the Storm

Meditation is not about stopping your thoughts. It’s about noticing them, letting them pass, and coming back to your breath. This practice can help:

• Reduce racing thoughts at night.

• Lower blood pressure and heart rate.

• Create a small pocket of stillness in an otherwise chaotic mind.

You can meditate anywhere—in a quiet room, in your car, even while walking. Start with two minutes. Breathe in slowly through your nose, hold for a moment, breathe out through your mouth. Let it be enough.

Massage — Permission to Be Held

Grief lives in the muscles. It stiffens the shoulders, knots the lower back, and clenches the jaw. A professional massage—or even a simple shoulder rub from a friend—can:

• Improve circulation.

• Release stored tension.

• Trigger the body’s natural relaxation response.

For some, massage can also meet the need for safe, comforting human touch at a time when physical closeness is painfully absent.

The key with all three practices is consistency. You won’t feel “fixed” after one session, but over time, these small acts of care can lower your physical stress load, making it easier to carry the emotional weight of grief.

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Medication — A Careful Conversation

For some, grief brings symptoms that cross into clinical anxiety or depression. In these cases, medication might help—temporarily—to get your body and mind back to a manageable baseline.

But here’s the caution:

• Medication is not a cure for grief—it’s a support tool.

• Always work with a doctor, not just a friend’s recommendation.

• Avoid self-medicating with alcohol, recreational drugs, or misusing prescriptions—these can deepen depression and slow recovery.

If you do start prescribed medication, check in regularly with your healthcare provider and combine it with therapy, movement, and healthy routines.

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The Grief Body Checklist

Physical Grief Checklist:

• I feel physically exhausted even after resting.

• I experience tension headaches or migraines.

• My appetite has dramatically changed (more or less than usual).

• I’ve lost/gained more than 5 kg unintentionally.

• I have stomach cramps, nausea, or indigestion.

• I can’t sleep or sleep excessively.

• I feel shaky, sweaty, or physically restless.

• I’ve developed mouth ulcers or skin rashes.

• I’ve had increased heart rate or chest pain.

• I’ve caught colds or infections more than usual.

• I’ve avoided going for a medical check-up since the death.

• I haven’t exercised or stretched in over two weeks.

• My muscles ache, and I’ve done nothing physical.

If you ticked more than five boxes, please consider making an appointment with your doctor.

If you ticked more than seven, call today.

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You Don’t Have to “Push Through”

One of the biggest lies we tell ourselves—especially men, especially older people—is:

“I’ll push through this. I’m strong.”

No. That’s not strength.

That’s silence.

Real strength is saying, “I’m rebuilding, and I need a bit of help.”

Real strength is letting your sister bring you soup.

Real strength is calling your doctor and asking if they can fit you in.

Real strength is taking your blood pressure seriously.

Real strength is mourning and still respecting your physical body enough to care for it.

You don’t owe anyone stoicism.

You owe yourself rebuilding

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The Mind-Body Connection

Emotional stress and physical pain are deeply intertwined.

When your grief is unexpressed—when it’s buried—it shows up somewhere else.

• That lump in your throat? It’s all the unsaid words.

• That ache in your back? It’s the weight you’re carrying.

• That pain in your chest? It’s the moment you realized they were really gone.

You’re not imagining it.

You’re not being dramatic.

You’re mourning.

And mourning is physical.

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A Gentle Reminder

Take a walk. Just a short one.

Drink some water. Even if it’s just a few sips.

Stretch your shoulders. They’ve probably been tense for days.

Book that doctor’s appointment—even if it’s just to get checked.

Let someone know you’re not sleeping. Ask them to check in.

Eat one small, real meal. No shame. No judgment.

Your body needs your attention.

It’s mourning too.

And it’s trying—desperately—to help you survive.

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I now notice when my hands shake. I listen when my body says, enough. I book the appointment. I take the walk. I drink the water. And I tell others: Grief hurts. Don’t wait for a breakdown to believe it.