The Word I Said Out Loud For the First Time

It landed heavier than I expected

Labels Only Mean What You Let Them Mean

I use the word “widow” here as a general descriptor—one that includes widower, too

Someone asked if my husband was retired or still working, and without thinking too much about it, I answered:

“I’m a widow.”

It landed heavier than I expected.

I. Am. A. Widow.

It’s a word that feels like it wants to take over. Like it could become the first thing people see, and maybe the only thing. Quiet. Sad. Alone. A life defined by what’s missing. I’ve seen that version. The “widows table.” The smaller invitations. The subtle shift in how people relate to you.

That’s the part that unsettles me. Because it’s not the whole story. Not even close.

Years ago, sociologist Everett Cherrington Hughes described something called a master status—a single label that overrides everything else about a person. It can easily overshadow their other roles, achievements, or characteristics. Widow can easily become that.

But it isn’t who I am. It may be something that’s true about me. But it doesn’t get to define me.

This “labeling” of society often leads to contradictions, where one’s master status may not align with the person’s true identity. I might be labeled “widow,” but my identity is shaped by so much more - my work as a Realtor®, my journey in writing on Belonging as a former caregiver, the way in which I support my friends, and so much more.

We are all so multi-dimensional, it seems impossible to be identified with one word.

I’m still working. Still thinking. Still building a life. Still showing up for people I care about. Still figuring out what comes next. ****

• I don’t have to let one word define me.

• Widow is part of the story.

• It’s not the headline.

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There was a moment when something shifted.

In June of 2025, Lee’s caregiver and I made the decision that I shouldn’t visit him anymore. He didn’t know who I was, and my presence made him anxious.

That was the moment. That was when I lost him completely.

Not the day he died.

Anticipatory Grief During The Long Goodbye

There’s a kind of grief that lives in that space—when someone is still here, but not really here. You don’t get a clean ending. You just slowly let go, piece by piece.

By the time he passed, I had already been grieving for a long time.

And alongside that grief, something else had started to take shape.

A decision, really. To keep going.

Not in a forced, “everything is fine” way. But in a deliberate way. I went back to work. I made changes at home. I paid attention to how I showed up again—what I wore, how I moved through my days. I booked travel. Some with friends. Some on my own. Small steps, but intentional ones.

Psychologist Dan P. McAdams writes that we make sense of our lives through the stories we build over time. Loss becomes part of that story, but it doesn’t have to be the ending. We define our lives through evolving stories, integrating past, present, and future. For a widow, this involves reconstructing a “life story” that incorporates the loss. Effective adaptation often includes redemption—finding positive meaning or growth from the loss. That feels right to me.

Something Else: Relief.

Writer Marti Lythgoe wrote about feeling that after her husband died from dementia, and I understood it immediately. My Husband Died of Dementia but I’m Not Sad. Am I Okay?

After everything Lee went through—and everything it took to care for him—I feel relief that he’s at peace.

And I feel relief for myself.

Not because I loved him any less. But because loving him through that required everything. The constant attention. The worry. The exhaustion. The loneliness that sits quietly in the background of caregiving.

People think grief starts at death. But if you’ve lived this, you know it starts much earlier. By the end, you’ve already carried so much of it.

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So now, here I am.

Yes, I am a widow.

But I’m also still me.

Still capable of building something meaningful. Still connected. Still moving forward, with a life that includes everything we had—not erased, not diminished, just… integrated.

That’s how I want to live this next chapter.

• Not smaller.

• Not defined by loss.

• Just fully, and honestly, as myself.

Vicki.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.