I am 18 months into being “alone” in a world where I spent almost 30 years as a couple with my late husband, Erik. I have just started to use the phrase, “my late husband” because I have been referring to him as “my husband” in the present tense since he died. That is a hard habit to break! 

While I take pride in my evolution through embracing  “aloneness,” I also long for connection. I have people who encourage me to “just be ok alone” and I appreciate their confidence in my ability to persevere in my new single gal skin. Or I often hear that it is not time “yet” for me to date because I am so freshly a widow. It is a really weird space for me to navigate. 

Experiencing the world alone after walking the planet with another human is (for me) like always standing at the edge of a cliff. I simultaneously scan the horizon for danger and adventure with a hopeful gaze every day.

And depending on the day, that gaze is sometimes clouded by my innate sense of optimism or clouded by that dark corner of a suicide survivor’s grief that whispers doubt about my lovableness. That voice just quietly whispers, Erik is gone forever and now you will be alone forever. That voice is kind of a jackass.

That voice reminds me at 2am that my one little income has to support the whole family, including all 3 kids in college at the same time this fall, and somehow still make it to my affordable nursing home someday. That part of me watches elderly people holding hands or steadying the walker for one another as they enter the building and I wonder, “who will steady my walker someday?” 

That part of me watches friends become grandparents and I realize I am going to be the sole grandparent babysitting all the kids alone. That part of me second guesses every decision big and small because there is no one to turn to as my trusted life partner and ask, “what do you think?” I do not have a parent copilot to hand the baton to when I’m exhausted by the parenting relay race for kidults called, “holy crap this job actually never ends.”

Erik was my person. I realize that some people get do overs with a new “my person” but that job is forever taken by Erik. So “getting back out there” in the dating/singles realm is a psychological exercise in being completely present while also holding onto the past version of me who was someone’s wife. And explaining how I am not someone’s wife anymore to complete strangers is not the story I want to tell over happy hour cocktails. 

I saw on the news that this month marks the 50th anniversary of the movie, “Jaws.” Anyone born before 1980 has never quite looked at the ocean as a super safe place because of it. And that is exactly what the ocean of men looks like to me. It is scary out there. I don’t think you know what “out there” is when you say to get back in it.

I tried a dating app and managed to attract what seemed like only grandpas or felons…oh, and that one guy who forgot to mention that he was actually married just looking for “friendship.” I can also blame myself. It could be the photo I used on my dating profile of me wearing a turtleneck and holding a giant block of cheese. 

A friend said getting “back out there” at my age is like shopping at a thrift store. You have to pick through a lot of damaged and old stuff to find a keeper. I wonder if I don’t have the energy for this “shopping experience” because I did not ask to be single at my age? This was never part of my plan. I was someone’s wife on a Saturday and I was inexplicably alone in the universe by Sunday. 

It seems easier to reinforce “being okay alone” when you are not really alone. Widowhood is a complete black hole type of aloneness. It is not the same as being divorced or taking long walks on the beach alone. And I am not saying that I am not okay. Solitude is not a terrible thing. There is great peace and freedom when you spend time being your own best friend and watching only the shows you like on TV. But I know that I am not wired to live in isolation forever. 

I need to tell someone about my day. I need someone else to drive the car. I need someone else to help me put my necklace on or zip up the back of my dress. I want someone to truly know me and still like me anyway. And I need to be hugged. Imagine going weeks at a time without human contact when you started your day with a long giraffe hug by the coffee pot every morning for decades? It can be a brutal and sacred form of aloneness. 

I deleted the dating app because that is just not how I want to meet the grandpa felon I am meant to find someday. For now, I will keep scanning the horizon by the scary cliff with more optimism than skepticism. And I will steal hugs from unsuspecting souls who thought they were coming in for a shoulder tap but instead found themselves trapped in the arms of someone who used to be somebody’s wife.