I think most people say, “If my husband died, I could never date again.”
And I get that. It sounds loving. Devoted. Romantic even.
I don’t remember if I ever said that when Mitch was alive, but I probably did. We had been together since I was 17 years old. He wasn’t just my husband — he was my entire adult life. I had never been alone. I didn’t know how to be alone.
After Mitch died, once the chaos quieted down and the casseroles stopped coming, what I missed most wasn’t just him — it was partnership.
I missed being loved.
I missed affection.
I missed being desired.
I missed not carrying everything alone.
And I found myself thinking about being with someone again much sooner than most people would expect — even sooner than I expected.
Two months after he died, on our anniversary, my mom and I were talking about the future. She mentioned the idea of me falling in love again someday. I remember saying, “I think I do want to be with someone again… but I think it would have to be a widower.”
It wasn’t about replacing Mitch. It was about finding someone who would understand that I would always love him. Someone who wouldn’t be threatened by that. Someone who knew grief from the inside.
My mom kind of laughed and gently reminded me there weren’t exactly a surplus of young widowers just waiting around in our area.
Still, I knew something: I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life alone.
At the same time, I wasn’t going to go looking for it.
Partly because I had absolutely no idea how to date as an adult. I had skipped that phase entirely. And partly because I was deeply aware that people would judge me. A young widow “wanting” to be with someone again isn’t always a storyline people are comfortable with.
During that in-between season, I found myself noticing men. Feeling attraction. Wanting attention. Wanting affection. It was confusing and honestly a little unsettling. But I didn’t act on any of it.
Looking back, I think my heart and mind just missed connection. It wasn’t recklessness. It was longing.
And then Dan came into my life in the most natural way.
A neighbor’s mom knew his mom. She mentioned that he had lost his wife, Jess, in a car accident just months earlier. He had two young kids and was struggling. She also casually mentioned that he had seen me downtown that summer and thought I was beautiful — though he was far too uncomfortable to come say hi.
She asked if she could give his mom my number so he could reach out if he ever wanted to talk.
I wasn’t sure at first.
Then I looked him up on Facebook.
And when I saw how handsome he was… I suddenly became much more open to the idea.
Which still makes me laugh.
This was supposedly about two widowed parents connecting over grief. And yet I felt this weird flicker of excitement. I told myself it was just support. Just someone to talk to who understood.
When I didn’t hear from him, I was oddly disappointed. One night, after a glass (or two) of wine with girlfriends, I sent him a message:
“Hey Dan, people keep telling me we should connect since we’ve been through similar crap. If you ever want to talk, I’m willing.”
We messaged back and forth that night and decided to meet the following Wednesday at a local bar and grill. I strategically chose the location because I had a basketball meeting for one of my sons later that evening — a built-in exit in case it was awkward.
I only told a few people I was meeting him. Not even my mom — which is saying something. I kept telling everyone (and maybe myself) that it wasn’t a date. Just two young widows sharing grief.
But I was giddy with possibilities.
From the moment we sat down, the conversation was effortless. We talked about grief, our kids, Jess and Mitch, our families, even random things like TV shows (Entourage, to be exact). At one point I ordered a Blue Moon and he smiled — it had been Jess’s favorite beer.
It was heavy and light at the same time.
There wasn’t flirting. There wasn’t anything inappropriate.
There was just connection.
And attraction.
And understanding without explanation.
I skipped the basketball meeting. I didn’t even hesitate.
When I drove home, I called my friend and told her how perfect it felt. He was the easiest person I had talked to in months. He was good-looking. I couldn’t wait to talk to him again.
And deep down, I knew.
This could be something special.
Was I nervous? Absolutely.
Not because of Mitch.
But because of what people would think.
It had only been four months. That number sounds small when you say it out loud. But grief doesn’t move in clean timelines. And feeling joy again doesn’t erase love.
That night, for the first time since Mitch died, I felt seen.
Not as a widow.
Not as someone people felt sorry for.
Not as a tragedy.
Just as me.
And I wanted more of that feeling.
Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. Love doesn’t either.
What felt right for me at four months might feel unimaginable for someone else at four years. There isn’t a universal timeline for healing, for connection, or for joy after loss.
This was simply my experience. And if your story looks different, that doesn’t make it wrong. It just makes it yours.