What Now?!

Seven months as a widow.

The longest stretch that I've been single since I was 16 years old. 

I've always thought of myself as an independent person. I started making my own decisions at 3 years old and I've never looked back. Married or not, I've always managed every practical aspect of family life. Well, almost every aspect. Getting the garbage and recycling to the curb is a new and painful experience. I've had a full life outside of my romantic relationships; motherhood, a rewarding career, athletic pursuits, friendships, and philanthropy.

Just between us, all that independence had me believing that while my man might need me, I didn't need my man. Sure, I wanted him. But I didn't need him.

I'm now finding that there is a profound difference between being independent and being alone. It's dawning on me that my comfortable independence was built on the foundation of love and support from my person. That Dave was my base camp. 

At the ripe age of 52, for the first time, I'm learning what it means to be truly independent. It's remarkably uncomfortable.

Babe, it turns out that I needed you more than either of us realized. And not just for the damn garbage and recycling.