When The Heart Widens

From the moment I woke up, I was acutely aware of Steve’s absence in my life. And I tried to avoid thinking about the new roles I’d been thrust into: widow and solo head of household. It was too overwhelming. As each day progressed, I would go from laughing at a sweet memory to crying over a smoke detector battery failing. I felt out of control—something I didn’t welcome or have much experience with as a type A personality with a gift for details and a profound need for routine and structure.

Somewhere during that early stage of emotional chaos, I found a small grief group run by a certified grief counselor. We met on Zoom. When I signed up for the first six-week session, I planned to just check it out, listen, and see if what was offered helped lessen my feelings of anxiety, overwhelm, and loneliness. Over time, those little squares on my screen—each one holding another woman’s story of deep loss—became a kind of lifeline for me. 

I found much comfort in our zoom routine, too. We showed up with mugs of tea or a glass of wine. We were encouraged to arrive as we wished, in sweats and PJs, maybe draped in a favorite blanket. As we entered the online room, we waved friendly hellos and waited for our moderator to open with breathing work, a poem, or piece of music. Somehow, just seeing those familiar faces every two weeks, helped me believe I was going to okay and would return to something resembling normalcy one day.

One evening, after the usual round of updates, our moderator leaned toward her camera. She waited, as she always did, until the energy in the room settled. My breathing slowed almost automatically.

“There’s something that’s been coming up a lot lately,” she said. “In emails, in the side conversations. And I’d like to open space for it tonight.”

I glanced around at the other faces—everyone was alert, looking as tense as I felt.

“In my practice,” she continued, “I often hear from people who’ve lost a partner who, after a lot of tears and time, find themselves interested in dating again. Or even falling in love.” Her voice softened. “And almost every time, there’s hesitation.”

A flicker of something moved through me. My friend had been trying to fix me up with a man from her church. I’d brushed it off, but the truth was I didn’t know how to answer her. Was I ready? Would people think I’d moved on?

“It’s not that they’re unsure about the new relationship,” she said. “It’s that they’re worried about what other people will think.”

I swallowed hard. The question I’d avoided for months came next.

“Will people judge them?” she asked. “Will others assume they’ve forgotten the person who died? That they no longer love them?”

My chest captured my breath and held it. I thought about how I talked to Steve in my head, how I heard his voice when something broke around the house. I imagined him directing me as I problem solved, fulfilling his vision for me and my family, and completing his unfinished to-do list. I realized my grief hadn’t gone anywhere—it had simply learned how to sit quietly and let me hold it when I my body and mind were able.

“That fear of judgement is real,” she said. “And it breaks my heart. Because it keeps so many beautiful stories of hope from being shared.”

Hope. That word still felt distant, something reserved for people further along in the grieving process than me.

“The truth is,” she went on, “falling in love again after loss doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten your special someone. It means your heart is still capable of loving. That it’s still alive.”

Alive. I hadn’t thought of my heart that way in a long time.

“You never stop loving the person who died,” she said. “That love doesn’t end—it changes. You carry them in everything you do. And yes—even in how you love again.”

I thought of Steve’s laugh, the way he’d wrap his arms around my waist in the kitchen, nestling his chin into the crook of my neck. The ache in my chest was still there, but now it was threaded with something else—something that felt almost like permission.

“The heart doesn’t replace,” she went on to say quietly. “It expands. There’s room for the love you had and the love you find.”

My chest let go of the breath trapped there. Expansion. I placed a hand over my chest without realizing it. Could there really be room for another love?

She smiled gently. “Someone recently told me they wished people talked more about love after loss. Because those stories remind us that life can bloom again.”

Her words struck a chord with me. Maybe love after loss isn’t about forgetting and starting over—maybe it’s about growing around what remains.

“But not everyone will want another relationship,” she added. “Sometimes people reach a place of peace. And that’s beautiful too. It means healing has taken root.”

I felt my shoulders drop. Peace. I wanted that.

“Still,” she said, “we need reminders that love after loss isn’t just possible—it’s beautiful. Grief doesn’t close our hearts forever. It reshapes them.”

She looked straight into the camera. “For those who do find love again, it’s not a betrayal of the past. It’s a celebration of survival.”

Survival. The word settled in my chest. I had survived, hadn’t I?

“Love after loss doesn’t replace one person with another,” she said. “It’s understanding that love never dies—it grows.” Her voice softened. “So if you’re brave enough to love again, please don’t feel guilty. You deserve happiness. The one you lost would want that for you.”

I closed my eyes. I could almost hear Steve saying those words himself.

“And if others don’t understand,” she added with a faint grin, “let them.” A few of us laughed, a nod to Mel Robbins’ Let Them Theory—our grief counselor’s favorite reminder not to waste energy on what we can’t control.

When our call ended, the screen went dark, and my reflection appeared in the glass. Nothing in my life looked different. But something had shifted.

I didn’t know then if I’d ever fall in love again. That wasn’t the question anymore. What mattered was that I wasn’t afraid of the possibility—and that my heart, even after all it had weathered, was still whole, determined to figure out how to live again. 

(This post is not a result of a recorded conversation, but rather my interpretation of what was likely to have happened and likely to have been said during grief counseling sessions.)

Follow Me Here

June 20, I look forward to connecting with fellow local authors at the Chicago Writer’s Association conference in downtown Chicago. This year’s event is at The Steppenwolf Theatre. 

July 16-19, I will attend the Understory Writer’s Conference in Park City, UT. I can’t wait to reconnect with fellow authors who attended with me last year.

On August 15, The second book in my Let’s Go with Lulu kidlit series, DJ and Lulu Go to the Car Wash, launches! Details forthcoming. Story is based on the real-life story about adventures with my oldest grandson.

September 6-22, I plan to hike a section of the El Camino again with Laura Davis’ group, The Writer’s Journey. My return is driven by the need to do research for a third memoir about my journey through love and loss while hiking the Camino. 

October 9-11, Next Fall, I will attend the She Writes Press author retreat at the Westin Rancho Mirage Resort in Palm Springs, CA. Thrilled to be selected as a presenter for the panel, “Marketing for Memoirists.”

Follow Julie by visiting her website, subscribe to her bimonthly newsletters, and listen to previous podcast recordings where she discusses topics like adoption, identity, family relationships, sisterhood and belonging.

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