Is Being A Widow My Identity?

When you lose a spouse, you do not just lose a person. You lose a version of yourself.

Widowhood brings questions no one prepares you for, especially the quiet ones. Is being a widow my identity? Who am I now? Who am I allowed to become? After loss, language changes. Relationships shift. Even the way you describe yourself can feel heavy with meaning.

This excerpt from Chapter 76 of Flowers Bloom Anyway: Rebuilding a Life You Didn’t Choose explores the complicated reality of identity after loss. Marriage turns “me” into “we.” Grief does not disappear just because love returns. Widowhood can remain part of someone’s story without defining the entire book.

If you have ever struggled with how to describe yourself after loss, or felt conflicted about labels like widow, wife, or remarried widow, you are not alone.

Chapter 76: Is Being A Widow My Identity? 

After losing Josh I had to question my entire identity. We had been married only six and a half years, but anyone who’s married knows how quickly a couple becomes we. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a self outside of him—it was that Josh and I were a team. Most healthy marriages are. We made decisions together, knowing every choice would ripple across both of our lives. Marriage forces you out of “me” thinking into “we” thinking. Sometimes that means compromise. Sometimes that means sacrifice. But the truth is, you stop making decisions in isolation.

One of the hardest things after Josh died was learning to stop saying “we.” I caught myself using it anyway—only now “we” meant Vidalia and me. Not Josh and me. People noticed. Sometimes it made them uncomfortable. I’ve heard other widows talk about the same thing—how strange it feels when others correct them for speaking of their late husband in the present tense. But the truth is, Josh is still here. He lives in our daughters. He lives in me. He’s woven into our story.

The dictionary definition of a widow is simple: a woman whose spouse has died and who has not remarried. But real life is messier. Many of us prefer “remarried widow,” because widowhood doesn’t vanish when you find new love.

Even though I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, I struggle with the idea of no longer calling myself a widow. It feels like erasing my marriage to Josh, as if the six and a half years we shared never happened. I know that isn’t true—but the label “wife” to Brent alone feels incomplete. I prefer “remarried widow” because it carries the full truth: I loved Josh. I lost him. And I also love Brent. Both can exist at the same time. It’s complicated.

Identity is rarely one-dimensional. It’s layered and evolving—shaped by careers, relationships, losses, and new beginnings. For me, widowhood is not just a label; it’s part of who I am. But it isn’t the only part.

Identity after loss is not something you solve once. It is something you carry, reshape, and integrate over time.

Being a widow is not my entire identity, but it is part of who I am. It influences how I love, how I parent, and how I hold both grief and joy at the same time. Widowhood did not replace who I was before. It became one layer of who I am now.

If you are navigating life after losing a spouse, know this. You do not have to erase your past to honor your present. You do not have to choose between who you were and who you are becoming. Both can exist. Identity is allowed to be complex.

Sometimes telling the full truth matters more than fitting into a simple label.

If this resonated with you, I invite you to order my book Flowers Bloom Anyway: Rebuilding a Life You Didn’t Choose. It is a collection of honest stories about grief, identity, love, and learning how to keep going when life does not turn out the way you planned.

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