For the first time in my life, I was alone. I had gone straight from my parents' home to marriage. My husband had always been a strong, dependable provider. Even though I had worked my whole life, I had never truly been on my own. That became even more apparent after we immigrated to Israel—a new land with a new language and unfamiliar systems.
Suddenly, I was without my husband, far from my roots, and without immediate family nearby. I had never learned Hebrew really well, and I couldn’t navigate the mountain of bureaucracy that follows a death. My husband had handled all our finances. I felt vulnerable, overwhelmed, and afraid of being taken advantage of. I needed help, but I was distrustful and unsure of whom to trust.
I had never lived alone. I didn’t know how to begin. Would I be afraid at night? Should I move into a smaller apartment? Return to South Africa, where my daughter now lived? Or start over in the U.S., where my siblings might help me? I didn’t feel capable of making such life-changing decisions. Even getting out of bed and going to work required immense effort. I kept hoping life would give me a break—no more changes, no more upheavals. I just needed time and space to get my bearings.
In the span of four years, I had lost my mother, my parents-in-law, and my husband. My daughter and sister-in-law had both left Israel. My only remaining relative nearby was my elderly father. I remember praying: “Please, God, just let him be okay. Give me five years. I can’t take one more loss.”
Emotionally, I was unraveling. Tears came without warning—while walking down the street, at the checkout line, or sitting alone in my car. One day I’d feel composed; the next, I couldn’t face getting out of bed. I had a responsible job, and though my employers were incredibly supportive, I knew they had limits. I forced myself to show up, to manage my department. I learned how to compartmentalize. I became good at focusing on what needed to be done—even while grief simmered just beneath the surface.
But grief finds its own way out. One evening, during a Feldenkrais class, the instructor invited us to lie back and let our minds drift. I imagined myself walking along a beautiful beach, the sky blue, the day calm. Then, out of nowhere, a swarm of black, screeching crows filled the sky above me—flapping, cackling, terrifying. I couldn’t shake the image. I covered my face and trembled. When the lights came back on, I was sobbing. I fled, shaken and afraid.
People were kind, and many wanted to help. They encouraged me to talk—but often didn’t know what to do when I did. At the first sign of real sadness, they would pull back or offer platitudes: “It will pass,” or “I remember when…” I could sense their discomfort. It seemed my honesty about grief made them feel uncomfortable.
I once attended a widow’s group, where about twenty of us—mostly women, but a few men—sat in a circle and shared our experiences. Some had lost their spouses recently; others years ago. The conversation turned to the upcoming holiday of Rosh Hashana. For many, it’s a time of joy and renewal. For me, it was the anniversary of my husband’s death. I dreaded it.
When the facilitator asked, “Will you be with family for the holidays?” I said no and began to cry. Everyone stared—no family in Israel, none at all? One woman suggested, “Go visit your family in South Africa!” Another offered, “You must make a new life for yourself, my dear. Keep busy. Get involved.” Someone else chimed in about how volunteering had saved her. Her tone was self-congratulatory, as if she had solved the problem of grief and I just needed to follow suit.
They meant well. But the underlying message was clear: “Don’t bring your raw grief here. This is a place to talk about how we’ve moved on.” I was reminded of Harold Pinter’s play A Delicate Balance, where a couple’s trauma disrupts their friendships. People are generous—up to a point. But relationships, even close ones, have limits. I learned early on not to test the delicate balance too far.
Among the many unhelpful pieces of advice I received, the most frustrating were those who reduced my mourning to a clinical process. “You’re still in denial,” they’d say. Or, “Once you move through anger, you’ll feel better.” But Elizabeth Kübler-Ross never intended for her model to be used as a roadmap to judge others' grief. Grief is not linear. We all feel the stages differently, in our own time, in our own way. Being told how I should feel was not comforting—it was alienating.
Today, I am an experienced widow. I have rebuilt my life. Though widowhood remains part of my identity, it no longer defines me. I’ve graduated from Widowhood 101. I’m not here to offer universal advice—but I'd like to share what helped, and what didn’t:
Be kind to yourself. You’re in crisis. You will be distracted, forgetful, and uncertain. That’s okay. Allow yourself to make mistakes. If you can afford to be pampered, let yourself accept comfort. The absence of touch, companionship, and intimacy is real and painful. Be gentle with yourself.
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Be cautious of unsolicited advice. Many people mean well but lack empathy. Often, when someone asks how you’re doing, they don’t really want the truth. They want reassurance—that you won’t become a burden to them.
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Choose your confidants wisely. If someone seems nervous when you open up, back off. You need listeners, not fixers. Find those who can sit with your sadness without trying to erase it.
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Don’t make major decisions in crisis. Don’t sell your home or move countries unless absolutely necessary. Be wary of relocating to be near children—remember their lives are full too. Wait until you can think clearly again.
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Take control of your affairs. Get help with bureaucracy if needed, but learn to manage your own paperwork, bills, and appointments. Each task you master will restore a little of your confidence.
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Allow for ambivalence. You may start activities and later abandon them. Trial and error is okay. Let your routine evolve gradually.
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Avoid fleeing into busyness. Constant activity can be a distraction from healing. Learn to sit still. Learn to be alone with your fear.
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Initiate your own invitations. I realized I needed people in my home—conversation, warmth, human voices. I joined choirs, hosted meetings, cooked meals. I found that in shared joy, the sting of being single fades.
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And finally—time does help. It doesn’t erase the loss, but it changes its shape. In the early days, grief filled every corner of my life. Now, years later, it feels more like a distant memory—a story that begins with, “Once upon a time…”
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