Lately, I’ve been thinking about my high school bedroom. My parents were house flippers before house flipping became entertainment TV. They’d find a fixer-upper in a good neighborhood, move our family in, make cosmetic changes, and sell it about a year later.

Each new address was an adventure—a chance to try a different part of town, a different style of house, and a different version of ourselves.

But one house was different.

The real estate market in my city was softening, and protecting resale value wasn’t an immediate concern. For once, I got to make a decorating decision that wasn’t about the next buyer. I got to choose wallpaper for my bedroom.

I was 14, an awkward age when you’re trying to figure out who you are while simultaneously wishing you could become someone else. I desperately wanted to shed the labels I’d been given during my childhood, like shy, quiet, and reserved. And I decided my surroundings could facilitate the change.

Going to a home improvement store with my mom, I pored over dozens of wallpaper books until I found it: A bold patchwork pattern of red, gold, and navy squares, each one centered with a colorful butterfly.

My eyes lit up. My mother looked at it and said, “Are you sure? This doesn’t seem like you.”

“That’s the point,” I thought.

I remember coming home from school the day it was hung. My 12-by-12-foot room had been transformed into a crazy quilt of color. I stepped through the door expecting to meet the new me. Except she wasn’t there. And I immediately felt uncomfortable. The colors were too bold. The pattern was too busy. And the butterflies almost seemed to mock me saying, “This isn’t who you are.”

So, I stopped spending so much time in my room. I got a job at the mall. I made new friends. I ventured farther into the world. And slowly, I became a stronger version of my true self. The butterfly wallpaper had done its job after all.

I think about that bedroom now because, in some ways, I’ve gone through another butterfly phase. Becoming a widow shook the cocoon I had built around my life. I couldn’t stay the same person I’d been before David died no matter how hard I tried. There was a voice inside me saying, “This is no longer who you are.”

So, I began making new choices. I traveled alone. I tried improv. I said “yes” to things that scared me. I let myself become curious again.

At first, some of those choices felt as uncomfortable as that wallpaper. Change often does that. We imagine transformation as something graceful—a butterfly emerging from a cocoon with perfectly formed wings, ready to fly—but that rarely happens.

What I learned is that it’s OK to be awkward. To begin again. And even to spend some time feeling like a stranger to myself.

Slowly, I started to recognize who I was becoming. An even stronger version of myself who’s ready to fly.

“You’ve changed a lot, what have you done?”  

“Choices.”

Joie de Veuve

Joie de veuve is French for a widow’s joy, and I’ve learned that finding joy in widowhood is possible if you’re willing to look. Recently, I found joy in these places:

• Swallowtail butterflies enjoying colorful Lantana blooms
• Swinging on a swing in a Grand Rapids park
• Coming across a Little Art Library while on a walk

Worth Sharing

My sister shared a video from Jesse Itzler a couple of months ago. I think everyone should follow Kevin’s Rule.

Be Brave

“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”— Maya Angelou

Be brave. Be willing to spread your wings and change!

Psst: Did you know I’m on Substack? Check out A New Way to Widow by clicking this link.