For most of my adult life, I was part of a couple.
My wife, Diane, and I were married for 40 years. We had a life together, raised a family, made decisions together, grew together and, like any couple married that long, accumulated a lifetime of shared experiences. Then she developed dementia. As the disease progressed, it affected her ability to think and reason, and it changed the nature of our relationship. Increasingly, my role as her husband included being her caregiver.
When she died, I became a widower. But that simple sentence doesn’t really describe what happened. This is my story of resilience and renewal.
I spend my professional life as a divorce mediator, sitting with people whose marriages are ending. In my personal life, I have been learning what it means when a life partnership ends in a very different way. Death and divorce are different losses, and I don’t pretend to see it otherwise. But there are questions that can exist on both sides of that divide.
Who am I when I’m no longer part of this “we”? What happens to the routines and roles that helped structure my life? What does it feel like to make decisions without considering a partner? Where do I fit now? And perhaps eventually: What else might there be?
I don’t think there is one answer to those questions. My experience is different from that of someone going through divorce, but perhaps some of what I have been learning will feel familiar.
Living in the fog
There wasn’t one moment when I suddenly realized, I’m on my own now. In some ways, I had already begun to lose the partnership before Diane died because her illness had changed our relationship.
When she died, I lost my wife, but I also lost roles that had structured my life. I was no longer a husband. I was no longer a caregiver. I was no longer part of the “we” that had existed for most of my adult life.
I didn’t lose myself. That’s an important distinction. I have always had interests of my own, just as she had hers. We had things we loved doing together and things we did independently. I don’t believe I lost my identity in my marriage, and I don’t believe that a good marriage requires either person to do that.
What changed was the life around me.
I’ve described the period after my wife’s death as being in a fog. I still think that’s the best description I have. It wasn’t simply sadness. There was an uneasiness I couldn’t always identify. Something was missing. I had been living my life in a particular way, filling particular roles, and then I wasn’t.
I consider myself to be pretty self-aware, and I’ve been told that by others. I go to therapy. I spend time reflecting on what I’m feeling and why I’m feeling it. But self-awareness doesn’t mean that answers arrive on demand. Sometimes you understand what you’re feeling. Sometimes you don’t. Grief doesn’t necessarily provide much clarity while you’re experiencing it.
Looking back, I think part of the fog was trying to orient myself in a life whose structure had changed before I had the words to explain what that change meant. There were small moments when the difference became more visible.
On one trip, the people I was staying with were going to a party, so I went out to dinner by myself. I sat alone in a restaurant and realized I couldn’t remember the last time I had done that. I’m sure I had at some point during our marriage, but it had been years. There was nothing dramatic about sitting alone at a table. It just felt strange.
Much later, a neighbor of mine who was also widowed told me about checking into a hotel in London. The person at the desk asked her, “Are you here on your own, ma’am?”
Those words stayed with me: on your own.
I had been living it, but I hadn’t necessarily thought of it that way.
Finding my anchors
During that period, I had anchors. One was my work. I’m a divorce mediator, and I love what I do. Mediation requires me to be present for others. When two people sit down with me at one of the most difficult points in their lives, I need to be in their world and not in mine. I have to listen. I have to be curious. I have to be there for them.
My work also reminded me that I still had purpose. I could make a difference in other people’s lives, and I knew I wanted that to remain an important part of my future.
Physical activity was another anchor—tennis in particular, but also walking, biking, and taking care of my health. Therapy helped and continues to help. So did family.
And then there’s the internal conflict between reflection and simply continuing to live. Reflection is important. Therapy can help because another person can ask me questions I may not have considered. Yet a challenge remains: when does reflection become rumination—when I’m circling the same thoughts so much that thinking itself becomes emotionally exhausting?
My anchors gave me some constants amidst the grief. They allowed me to continue participating in life while I was trying to understand what would happen to mine. When so much is changing, it can help to ask: What is still there for me? What helps me feel grounded?
Transition doesn’t have to mean becoming someone else
There’s something I’ve realized while thinking about all of this. We often talk about major life transitions as opportunities to “reinvent” ourselves. That word can be right for some, and not for others.
I’m not looking to reinvent myself. I am who I am.
Certainly, I hope I continue to learn. I hope I continue to grow. I hope I become a better version of myself. But transition doesn’t necessarily require transformation. Sometimes the world around us changes, and the challenge is figuring out how the person we already are fits into that changed world.
For me, that has been much closer to my reality.
For decades, even when we were doing things independently, major decisions were made with each other in mind. Then I gradually came to realize that the decisions I was making involved only me. There was some freedom in that, but it still felt strange.
About six months after my wife’s death, I decided that moving into a new living space would be a helpful step into a new chapter. That decision would once have been our decision. Now it was mine.
I was beginning to bring some important questions into focus: Where do I fit in this world now? What is important to me beyond the things I already know are important? What else do I want to fill my life with? What are the opportunities that lie ahead—to learn, to grow, to explore new connections?
Someone coming out of a marriage may genuinely feel the need to change significant parts of their life or themselves. Someone else may feel perfectly comfortable with who they are and discover that the challenge isn’t becoming a new person at all. Many people have told me that their divorce gave them the chance to be the person they always wanted to be but weren’t able to be in their marriage.
Transition involves change. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to change who you are. Sometimes it means adapting to circumstances you didn’t choose and slowly discovering how you fit within them.
Something woke up
I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I was ready to meet someone. It happened almost accidentally.
I met a woman. We talked a few times. I felt a connection with her. Nothing ultimately developed from it, and that’s not really what matters. What did matter was what I learned about myself.
Until then, I hadn’t felt that kind of connection with anyone since my wife died. I probably hadn’t put myself in many situations where it was likely to happen. And then something that had been dormant woke up, and in this awakening, I realized that the part of me that wanted an emotional and intimate connection was still there.
That experience helped me understand something I have come to believe: any relationship begins with a connection. Where it goes can’t be known at the start. Like a spark, will it quickly extinguish, or will it grow into a flame? I also believe that things sometimes happen when we least expect them. This was an example of that for me.
The experience didn’t answer all my questions. It created some new ones. If I was open to connection again, where exactly was I supposed to find it?
The last time I had dated was more than 40 years earlier. There were no dating apps. There were no online profiles. I hadn’t exactly been preparing myself for reentry into the dating world.
Suddenly I was trying to figure out how people meet now, what to put in a profile, what it means when someone expresses interest, and how much of yourself to reveal to someone you’ve never met. It’s been interesting. Sometimes disappointing. Occasionally absurd.
But the mechanics of dating aren’t really the point. The point is that I discovered I wanted connection again.
And that has led me to another question: What do I actually want from another relationship?
For me, that question is closely connected to what I would want to bring to it. I’ve realized that I get an enormous amount of positive energy from being there for someone else, perhaps even more than I get from someone being there for me. That doesn’t mean I don’t want or value someone being there for me. I do. But part of what I want from a relationship is the opportunity to give—to care about someone, support her and be there for her. To celebrate her joy and to hold her in her hardest moments. That’s something I can’t experience in quite the same way when I’m on my own.
Being there for other people is at the heart of the work I do and something I’m passionate about. I think it’s also an important part of what I would want to bring to another relationship.
Perhaps that’s another question that can follow the end of a marriage or life partnership. It’s not only whether you want another relationship. It’s also what you have learned about what you want from one and what you want to bring to it. For me, those two things are very much connected.
What we carry with us
Being open to another relationship doesn’t require me to diminish the relationship I had. I keep a picture of Diane where I can see it. I’m grateful for the memories and for the life we had together. I’m grateful that we grew together and not apart, and that our life together helped shape the person I am today.
None of us becomes who we are entirely on our own. Part of who we are comes from how we show up in relationships.
I loved my wife very much. I tried to be a good husband to her. And I know that she loved me. There is value simply in having been loved by another person. I’ve come to understand that the fact that she loved me doesn’t disappear because she is no longer here. I carry that deep inside of me.
This doesn’t have to be a choice.
I loved her, and I can love again.
I can remember the love I had, remain grateful for it, and still be open to the possibility of having a loving relationship with someone else in the future. Perhaps that is another part of adapting. Moving forward doesn’t require erasing what came before. The life I had helped shape the person I am as I move forward.
For someone whose marriage ended in divorce, what they carry may be very different. There may be good memories alongside pain or disappointment. There may be relief. There may be things they have learned about themselves and what they need. You don’t have to feel grateful for the relationship to recognize that it helped shape you. And you can decide what you want to carry forward.
Giving it time
If I could say something to the man I was shortly after Diane died, I think I would tell him to give himself some grace. And some time.
Reflection doesn’t happen overnight. Understanding doesn’t happen overnight. Sometimes the fog itself gets in the way of thinking clearly enough to understand what you’re experiencing. You don’t have to figure everything out immediately.
I would also tell him to keep living while he’s trying to figure it out. Do the things that give you joy and comfort. Lean on your family and friends for support. Look for opportunities to learn. Pay attention to your physical health and your emotional well-being. And take time to let your mind rest from the challenge of navigating uncertainty.
And remain open to the possibilities that life offers for your future.
Open to growth. Open to learning. Open to people. Open to opportunities you weren’t looking for. Maybe even open to being surprised.
I don’t know exactly where all of this leads.
I’m looking for connection. I hope I find love again. I hope there is another meaningful relationship in my future.
But I’m also beginning to understand that I don’t have to know the ending in order to participate in what comes next.
For a long time, the fog made it difficult to see very far ahead.
I can see farther now.
And I’m curious about what happens next.
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