You think about the advice you’ve gotten about folding fitted sheets, but … none of it works. When you’re done, you’re holding a messy, wrinkled ball.

At least I tried the impossible thing, you tell yourself.

Later, when it’s time to make the bed, hidden in the corners of the fitted sheet are a wrinkled, mildewed washcloth and a single sock you’ve never seen before. You don’t have time to deal with that crap, but it’s there anyway.

Grief is like a fitted sheet.

But I keep coming back to something Jason told me near the end of his life:

“I’m jealous of old people.”

Does that hit you in the gut like it does me?

His grief over his shortened life reframed my views on aging. Sure, it annoys me that I have more aches and pains and wrinkles, but friends, getting old is a privilege. One not everyone gets to experience.

I’m grateful to be aging. I hope it doesn’t stop anytime soon.

“I’m so grateful for this life of mine.”

I hadn’t even finished typing when the oddness of it struck me. Sixteen months ago, my husband died, and grief still affects me daily. Yet the gratitude that burst out of my typing fingers didn’t come with a but (“I’m grieving, but I’m grateful”) or an even though (“I’m grateful even though I’m a widow”).

It was pure joy, no caveats.

What a beautiful milestone.

When Jason was diagnosed and I posted about it on Twitter, some dude replied …

“Can I date you when your husband dies?”

The beauty of this question was that it was so over-the-top inappropriate, it almost ceased to be offensive. I’ll always remember what Jason said when I read it to him:

“Worst pickup line ever.”

And we both laughed.

(That troll is probably still sitting on his couch, wondering why nobody wants a nice guy like him.)

For my dead husband.

Mail addressed to him always gives me a twinge of grief, but on that particular day, I didn’t feel like sitting in the sadness. Instead, I posted this on Facebook:

“Feel free to caption this with your darkest humor.”

I showed it to my 18-year-old, who said, “It’d take a bit of extra summoning to get him on that jury.”

I burst out laughing, and my Facebook friends agreed: nothing could top that response.

Why?

The most obvious answer is that I want to exist in a physical plane that’s low on chaos, unlike my emotional life.

There’s another reason too, though. I hated Jason’s cancer, and I couldn’t get rid of it. Now that he’s gone, it brings me comfort to get rid of things I don’t need in my life. It’s one thing I can control.

Sort the stuff. Donate. Toss. Recycle.

Repeat.

It kind of feels like healing.

“You know what, kids? I don’t know where the restaurant is! You can find it! You’ve got GPS too!”

I barked those words on day three of a vacation, after navigating mountain roads at midnight and sweating through a college tour. I was tired.

And lonely.

And sad.

I missed Jason, my partner in so many things, including vacation problem-solving. I didn’t sign up for single parenthood, and yet … there I was. Grumpy and grieving in North Carolina.

***

The kids found the restaurant. We had a good meal and made beautiful vacation memories.

(Even though it occasionally sucked.)

1. Only date people who treat them with kindness and respect.

2. Treat the people they date with kindness and respect.

3. Date people who share their deepest values.

Hope that helps!

Wait, what’s that? You noticed these rules apply to everyone, and there are no rules for if, or when, a widowed person should start dating?

Exactly.

As a bonus, here’s a comprehensive list of rules for how to treat a widowed friend who reenters the dating world:

1. Love and support them just like your other friends.

That’s. It.

(Because widowed people are just people.)

(you know,
those terrible stories
of the people
other people love
dying way too early)

It’s
strange—
startling—
certainly senseless—
when one of those
terrible things
actually happens
to you

It almost
doesn’t
feel
real

except
that it does

In some ways, it’s like being 20 again, trying to figure out where your life is going. We expect 20 year olds to screw up big. Maybe we should expect newly widowed people to do the same.

If you’ve lost a partner, does this ring true?

And for everyone reading: what’s the best way to support a grieving friend through such a vulnerable time ? (I’ll share my thoughts later!)

Every 23rd of every month for the last fourteen months, I was so aware of my loss. I made a point to make space for grief on those days. So it was weird that today, I didn’t realize what day it was was until after 2 p.m.

I haven’t had a “big grief day” today, and I know why: I don’t need as many of those as I did fifteen months ago.

I’m grateful for that. And it also makes me a little sad, for reasons I can’t explain in a hundred words.

Then Jason’s health shifted drastically. So did my reading habits. The first book I finished in 2025 was Challenger by Adam Higginbotham, about the 1980s space shuttle disaster. I lost Jason in February 2025, and I’ve read mostly nonfiction ever since.

My Goodreads is a study in whiplash.

I’ve seen others write about similar grief reactions. I’m not sure why I switched from escapist fiction to nonfiction—if you have any hypotheses, please comment!

Having already written and read my own story seventy bajillion times, I was caught off guard when I cried—again—as I revisited the end of Jason’s life. Jess held my hand as my emotions waned.

Writing my memoir has been such a gift. It’s required me to confront the hardest parts of my story over and over. The more I do that, the more I heal.

(That view of Cozumel probably helped too.)

It’s a Serbian dish called sarma. My daughter (then seventeen) made it.

That evening, Jason and I had gotten a phone call with his stomach cancer diagnosis. We hadn’t told the kids yet, so we ate dinner like everything was normal, exclaiming how good it was, chatting and laughing.

And underneath it all …

… I felt so very heavy.

Three years ago, everything changed for our family.

I love who we are now—full of grief and hard-won hope.

And I miss who we were before May 17, 2023.