Earlier this year, I met K.
It was January, in Sarasota, Florida. I was there as a facilitator on a incredible retreat for widows—not a guest, although that kind of deep receiving is something I still long for.
Yoga, meditation, breath work—these ancient rituals have been anchors for me, and now I share them with others in grief. But in those early years after losing Andy, I didn’t want healing. I wanted to be held. Completely. Fed, protected, relieved of all responsibility. I wanted to be a baby again. And of course… that didn’t happen.
Most of us don’t get that. Even those surrounded by a community can still feel completely alone—because that community doesn’t speak the new language we’ve been forced to learn.
That was exactly how K described it.
She was freshly widowed when we met. Still deep in the “sadmin” of paperwork and logistics, trying to function with a brain that had, understandably, left the building. I asked her, “What was it like when you arrived at the retreat?”
She said she was terrified. Scared of crying (which, by the way, is totally acceptable and fairly inevitable at a widows’ retreat), scared of who else might be there, what might happen, how she might cope. But what she felt—almost immediately—was the full-body relief of belonging. Of being safe. Of being understood.
She said that before the retreat, trying to explain what she was going through felt like speaking a foreign language. No one got it. And then suddenly, she was surrounded by people who did. Who spoke grief. Who spoke widowhood. And she didn’t have to explain.
I remember that moment for myself, too. When I first joined an online widow community, almost a year into clawing my way through the fog—I didn’t even speak to anyone at first. I just read. I observed. But instantly, I knew: I’m not crazy. I’m not broken. I’m not alone.
The breath I had been unconsciously holding for months finally released. I could breathe again.
So when K—who lives in Florida—let me know she’d be visiting the UK and wanted to meet for lunch, I jumped at the chance. I usually protect my work hours with military precision, but this felt important.
We were the only two who could make it. I barely knew her. I worried, irrationally, that there’d be long awkward silences. (Anyone else have social anxiety flashbacks from childhood? No? Just me?)
But of course… we didn’t stop talking.
We met under the giant bull at Grand Central Station in Birmingham and didn’t stop chatting until we hugged goodbye hours later, heading to our respective trains.
That’s the thing about widowhood. When you meet someone else in it, you skip the small talk. There’s a shorthand. A depth. An understanding.
We talked about the pain. The shifts. The discovery of our own strength. The trying of new things, the things that failed, the things that sparked joy. We talked about what helps, what hurts, and what still surprises us. We talked about complicated relationships, about raising kids through grief, about dreams, healing, and everything in between.
I didn’t even finish my food. I was too busy drinking in the ease of this beautiful, grief-born connection.
And what struck me most was this:
K was unrecognisable from the woman I met in January.
Back then, she was raw. Exhausted. Listening to others talk about hope and secretly thinking, “That will never be me.” I know that feeling. We all do.
But now? She’s one of us. One of the widows who can speak of life again. Of lightness. Of possibility.
She said she hadn’t believed it could happen. But it has. Not every moment, not every day—but enough. Enough to feel alive again. Enough to help someone else believe that they, too, won’t always feel this way.
The truth is: none of us wanted to be in this club. But once we’re in it, we need each other. We need rooms where our grief makes sense. Where no one tells us to move on, cheer up, or be grateful.
There is a place for you. There are people who speak your language. You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not the only one who feels this way.
You just need to find the room where you don’t have to translate yourself. And make sure it’s a room that lifts you. One that honours the pain and points gently toward the possibility of hope. Where it’s safe to sob—but also to laugh, to dream, to hear stories that remind you life still holds light. Even if it looks nothing like it used to.
You deserve that.
P.S.
If you need a space to be seen and validated, please check out my Support page of various ways I can be there to listen and hold space for you.
My Remember Membership is currently 50% off for your first four weeks if you join in September (2025). A soft landing place for support, movement, reflection, and connection. A place where we all speak the same language.
The waiting list for my 2026 Widows’ Retreat is now open — a fully immersive experience of everything I’ve just described (and then some).
There are now some fabulous podcasts out there specific to widows. Two of my favs are:
The Widow Podcast with Karen Sutton (my Remember partner)
Widowed AF with the lovely Rosie
There are also spaces online where you can chat with other widows, my go-to and where I volunteer is with WAY (Widowed and Young) – this is for UK residents only and you need to be under the age of 51 when your person died.
I have other blogs that explore grief, parenting, love, and the chaos of being human. You can read more here, or if you’re looking for something gentle to hold you right now, download my free guided meditation here.
You can also sign up for my newsletter to stay connected, be aware of when my next blog drops, or check out what I’m offering at the moment that might support you in your own story of loss.
You’re not alone—even when it feels like it.