Over the past three years, I’ve been on a path of healing and self-discovery. I think many of us are. At the beginning of my journey, I consciously avoided talking too much about widowhood. I didn’t want to make other people uncomfortable. But I’ve come to realize I was the one whose comfort zone had been shaken.

It all started one spring day last year, while walking along a Paris sidewalk with a friend who’d come to visit. We found ourselves talking about this very thing.

“I’m tired of people telling me I’m inspiring,” I said. “And every time I post something on social media, people respond with care emojis. It feels like they’re saying, ‘Oh, look at the widow out in the world being so brave.’ I just want to be normal.”

“But you are inspiring,” she said. “And people do care.”

“Well, I wish they wouldn’t!” I shot back, which, in hindsight, sounds ridiculous. “I think my being a widow makes people uncomfortable.”

“Maybe you’re projecting,” she said. “Maybe being a widow makes you uncomfortable.”

I stopped right there on the sidewalk.

“Why would I ever be comfortable being a widow?” I asked. (If I’m being honest, I also wanted to punch her in the face.)

We kept walking—probably faster than before because speed is my default setting whenever I’m worked up. My buttons had definitely been pushed. Eventually, we changed the subject.

She doesn’t know it, but that conversation started something inside me that took an entire year to untangle. What she said was the virtual punch in the face I needed because she was right. I was uncomfortable being a widow. And my discomfort was having a full-blown temper tantrum on a Paris sidewalk, screaming, “This wasn’t my plan! I hate it! It’s not fair!”

Over the next year, I slowly let go of the huffing and puffing and realized that widowhood wasn’t something to hide from. It could actually become my superpower … if I was brave enough to wear the cape.

To be clear, widowhood sucks. But if you look closely, it also offers unexpected gifts. You discover what really matters like family, health, and laughter. Lots of laughter. You stop fearing death quite so much—unless you’re merging into traffic at rush hour. You realize life itself isn’t short; we make it short by assuming we have all the time in the world to do the things we keep saying we want to do. And widowhood gives you permission to become a little more selfish. For years, I took care of everyone else. Now, I take care of me.

I put this blog on hold for the past few months because I needed to figure out what I really wanted to say if I stopped letting fear get in the way. If I stopped worrying about making other people uncomfortable. If I stopped worrying about my own discomfort. I finally decided it was time to take the widow cape out of the closet and wear it proudly.

My journey hasn’t looked like most. Looking back, though, it all makes perfect sense. It reminds me of Steve Jobs’ famous quote: “You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future.”

Instead of grief counseling and antidepressants, I chose improv classes and a ukulele. I chased wow moments instead of waiting to feel better before living again. I’m not saying my way is better than anyone else’s. Therapy and medication are life-changing and essential for many people. They simply weren’t my path. And the best part is that you can do all of the above!

My way of widowing was unconventional. Joyful. Curious. A little quirky. OK, a lot quirky. And maybe even a little inspiring? That’s why I’m sharing my story on my new Substack, A New Way to Widow.

Because when life shakes everything up, we get to choose what comes next. We have the power to write the next chapter. And sometimes that chapter includes an elf costume, duck boxing, and an otter named Pearl.

I hope you’ll join me there.