THIS POST MAY CONTAIN REFERRAL LINKS. IF YOU CLICK THROUGH AND TAKE ACTION, I MAY BE COMPENSATED, AT NO ADDITIONAL COST TO YOU.
A note from Marie:
During the three years I served on the board of the Quilt Alliance, I met many remarkable and gifted people. Many have become cherished friends. Among them was board president Meg Cox, a talented journalist, author, and quilter. She’s also an expert in the rituals that enhance and celebrate the passages of life—the joyous as well as the sorrowful.
My Widowhood by Meg Cox
I decided to remove my wedding band on my 65th birthday. It had been on my left hand for nearly 26 years, aside from the brief times I was under anesthesia for minor surgeries.
That birthday felt like a threshold. My husband Dick died about two and a half years earlier, and while my love for him only deepened, the first two years after his death were intense and consuming. I supported our college-age son, sold our large home, moved to a smaller place, and worked through estate details. Sorting through hundreds of boxes was wrenching and cathartic: I had to decide what to keep and what to discard. Discovering the boxes where Dick had kept every birthday and Valentine’s card I’d ever given him was a surprising rush of love and memory.
Take Time to Let It Sink In
Widowhood felt like an advanced lesson in mindfulness. One of the most helpful pieces of advice I received right after Dick died was: don’t let others shorten your grief, and don’t let yourself be distracted. Let this time be sacred. Allow yourself to experience the emotions fully rather than pushing them away, even though tasks and obligations will multiply.
Spend Time with Your Thoughts (and Write Them Down)
I began meditating each morning and sitting with whatever feelings arose. Every day I asked myself: what is the absolute priority today? Everything else I let slide. In those early weeks I couldn’t bear to read the news or hear the radio or the TV; new information would displace the intensity of my last days with Dick, and I wasn’t ready for that.
Journaling helped me trace the shifting contours of my new life and keep a clear head. I moved forward blending old comforts and new choices: I still sleep in the sturdy sleigh bed we picked out thirty years ago, but above it now hangs a framed artwork that had lived in the attic for years because it wasn’t Dick’s style. Independence brought fresh joys and freedoms—I started traveling again and tried activities I’d never considered before, like kayaking and aerial yoga. I spent three weeks in India and plan a trip to Mexico next.
Adjusting to a New Life (and Sometimes a New You)
As my friend Penny Barnes observed: grief eventually shifts from concentrating on loss to inviting self-discovery. Who am I now?
Even with a busy life, something felt missing. Handling emergencies and practicalities left little room for anything else, and the notion of new romance felt frightening at times. The ring was more than a token of marriage; it felt like a shield, a quiet signal that I was spoken for. Still, I sometimes wondered if anyone would be interested in this older, newly single woman.
Gradually, I realized I missed being held, loved, and appreciated. The idea of sharing life with a partner—discovering new emotional and physical landscapes—began to feel appealing. I found myself imagining sharing my home, even part-time, with someone else.
Finding Comfort in Community
The wisdom of others who have experienced loss has been a steady grace. I also found unexpected sisterhood online in a private group called Hot Young Widows. Though started by women in their 30s, it welcomes widows of any age. The group became a safe place to ask practical questions—“When did you take off your ring?”—and to see that there are no rules for grieving and moving forward; each person’s path is personal and valid.
Find Your Ritual for Grief and Healing
Because my work explores ritual and tradition, I wanted the act of removing my ring to have meaning. I placed a temporary tattoo near my collarbone that read: Choose Love Now. The ring itself was stubborn and needed soap, cream, and persistent tugging to remove; even weeks later there is an indented line on my finger. As I took it off, I spoke aloud to Dick, thanking him for the joy we shared and for how profoundly he shaped my capacity for commitment. If he could answer, I know he would tell me to go forward and seek more joy.
Embracing the Next Chapter
I signed up for three online dating sites and tried to describe myself honestly. Answering profile questions turned into an exercise in self-clarity; I even learned new terms like “sapiosexual.” The experience has been a mixture of hopeful connections and awkward or dishonest encounters. Some men are upfront about wanting non-monogamous arrangements; others misrepresent their circumstances. Many messages are all talk and no follow-through.
Because I am selective, I haven’t gone on a date yet, but I am meeting thoughtful and articulate men. I’m open to where this chapter leads—curious, cautious, and ready for new experiences.
About the Author
Meg Cox is a national journalist, author, and speaker who has written about ritual and celebration, including The Book of New Family Traditions. Her work often explores how rituals help mark life’s transitions. She has written about leaning on ritual during grief and continues to share insights about healing and renewal.