Identity Loss in Widowhood

We made it! It has been a hot second, blog family. But we made it to Baltimore! Bryson and I are settled into our new home, and have been busy with all the things. Work, friends and family get togethers, outdoor festivals, local trips, and exploring the city streets. Bryson is now a walking, Baltimore GPS system and can name more of the streets, by sight, than I can. Needless to say, I’m pretty impressed. 

And me? I am feeling more settled than I have in a while. In the wake of another successful A Matter of Hope event, I also completed an intense life coach certification program. That’s right, you can now refer to me as Coach Xtina.

It’s no secret that these last few years have been emotionally and physically tough. I’ve moved 4 times in 3 years, not including “temporary stays” at my parents house and condo. I’ve gone from an excited, and slightly exhausted, expectant mother and wife moving into her “forever home,” to a slightly more exhausted solo parent and widow finding her way. In between all of that, I’ve experienced more heartache, trauma, and pain than I witnessed in all of the 33 years before, combined. And, I’m still here, trying to make sense of the nonsense and carve an alternate path out for my son and I. Right now, that means living amidst the energy of a city that has been an integral part of my story. You can read more about my decision to move us back to Baltimore in this blog post. 

This return to Baltimore sets the stage for what I want to chat about today, as I’ve seen a lot of fellow widows and grievers go through a similar secondary loss: the loss of identity. 

But first, what is a secondary loss?

Secondary losses, in the world of grief and widowhood, are losses on top of the primary loss of losing your partner or loved one. These secondary losses compound the already painful loss that exists simply by not having your person. There are a wide range of secondary losses, impacting basically every aspect of life. These losses include, but aren’t limited to:

• loss of financial security
• loss of friends/other relationships
• loss of memories
• loss of faith
• and many, many more.

For more information on secondary losses, I highly recommend this blog post by What’s Your Grief (they also have a wonderful website and instagram). For the purposes of this blog post, I’m focusing on identity loss, as I’ve expereinced it. My perpetual disclaimer: this is my experience. Others may see, think and feel differently. Own your journey, as I own mine.

For reference, let’s bring it back.

In 2010, when I was 24 years old, I ventured down 95 to Arlington, VA.   

Feeling a little lost in my post-college, now “adult,” phase, I longed for a change. After some soul searching and back and forth between DC and MA, I ended up moving to Baltimore in June of 2011. I didn’t know if I’d end up staying in Baltimore long term; but I knew that as a single, childless, 25 year old, now was the time to take some chances, try something new, and see where life took me. Besides, you can’t believe everything you see on The Wire, right? On top of having one of my best friends already in Baltimore, I had met a few friends prior to my permanent move, making the transition easier. In this group of friends was this handsome, 6-foot 2, blonde-haired, green-eyed, slightly loud, life of the party, gentleman named Matt. As a former Nick Carter loyalist, with a history of attraction to the confident, charismatic type, it’s not a surprise that Matt intrigued me. Flirtations between Matt and I dated back to a pre-Preakness, infamous Sunday Funday before I moved to Baltimore. They came on strong once I moved, and peaked, marking the beginning of our relationship, around July 4th, 2011. From that point on, Matt and I were a team. 

“Matt and Christina” became the norm. We shared the same group of friends, our social calendars lined up almost exactly, we travelled together; we “pseudo-lived,” then actually lived together, and of course, in 2015 we adpoted Charlie. Sure, there were girls nights and bro time; we both had our own careers, responsibilities, and workout calendars. But for the most part, big decisions were, at base minimum, discussed with each other. We became each others’ “everyday.” Matt knew things about me that many, to this day, do not. And vice versa. He was my confidante; he saw me at my best and at my worst. We held each other tight during the hard; and celebrated together during the happy. Somewhere during this time, part of our identities became intertwined. 

After Matt died, I distinctly remember standing in the middle of the bathroom in my parents condo. 

I refused to go back to our house; a house that had once held so much promise and now symbolized so much pain. I looked in the mirror and thought “I don’t even know who this person is.” My eyes were swollen from crying, with runny mascara seeping out the corners. Exhausted from weeks on end in a hospital, watching my once strong, charismatic husband, my best friend and soulmate, die in front of my eyes.  Exhausted from a year of dealing with grief, hope, disappointment, fear, and…being a new, working mom. With the faint cries of my almost one year old in the background, I saw remnants of a person who used to lead a starkly different life; a life that seemed so uncomplicated, and full of love and small tribulations. A life I envied.

Over the course of the year prior, I didn’t have the time or mental capacity to witness my identity shifting. It just happened in the background of pure chaos. And when I stood in front of that mirror, it felt surreal and abruptly real all at the same time. 

When you find someone you anticipate spending the rest of your life with, the possibility of that not happening never feels believable. All of a sudden “our” went to “my.” Our future, our dreams, the life we planned together was now gone. The person I was before all of this felt so distant from the person I was just one year later.

We had a plan.  We got married; We started a family. We moved to a town with a “phenomenal school system.” We had stable, lucrative careers and were saving well to create a nest egg for our retirement. That’s what we were supposed to do, right? 

A part of me, my identity, my safety, felt like it left with Matt.

It’s important to note that figuring out my identity, or really anything that required more than 10 seconds of my attention in the days and weeks following Matt’s death, felt completely unimportant. I was numb, rolling through the motions of logistics, hoping I’d get an hour of sleep. I’d wake up, forgetting that this was actually real life, expecting Matt to be there. What do you mean this isn’t a freaking nightmare? Shit like this doesn’t happen to us. What a cruel lesson on how quickly your life can be turned upside down. 

As the weeks wore on, the loss of my identity felt more urgent. And I felt more rebellious. Screw what’s supposed to happen and how I’m supposed to be. When you’ve experienced intense love and loss, the brevity of life punches you in the face. Time becomes more fragile and precious. I questioned everything.

• How am I spending my time? 
• Where am I spending my time?
• Who am I spending my time with? 
• What is my legacy?
• How does my life matter in this world?
• What do I believe in?
• What do I value?

Almost two years later, with therapy and coaching, I’m still figuring out who I am in the wake of Matt’s loss.

I’ve leaned into the discomfort of being a widow, a term that at one point in time sent a chill up my spine. I’ve leaned into my role as a solo parent, developing my own systems of getting the seemingly impossible accomplished. I’m at peace knowing that Matt IS still part of who I am; that even in death, he shows up for me and in me as I navigate life. 

Most importantly, I’ve learned to believe in myself and my choices, independently. I’ve learned to have my own back, always, especially when I have no idea what I’m doing.  Self-confidence has never been a strong point for me. I’ve struggled with it most of my life, always feeling like I was less than. Part of the reason I was so attracted to Matt was his beaming, unwavering, self-confidence. Likewise, he lifted me up when I felt down. He believed in me, more than I believed in myself sometimes. I knew I had a partner who would always have my back, as I did for him. Part of finding out who I am now, means uncovering how I can be “Matt” for myself; how I can be my own champion. It means giving myself permission to explore, to dig in, to ask myself hard questions, and even, to dream again. It means giving myself the space to make decisions, change my mind, and lean into my truth, even if that means raising my child in the city, becoming a life coach (because how many of you are still confused about what that means?), and dating again.  

I’m still figuring all this out, friends. But aren’t we all? Aren’t we always changing, taking on new roles, shifting our beliefs, questioning our status quo, and taking risks? We’re entering into new friendships, relationships, work roles, and familial situations. Maybe it’s not about “finding myself again;” maybe it’s about embracing that life is inconsistent, ever-changing, and all we have right now is right now. How do I want to show up for life in this moment?

What does it mean to me, now?

Right now, I’m in a bit of a strange place. Life without Matt here on this side is becoming more normalized, which is equally as terrifying as it is necessary. While things will never be the same, I’ve allowed more space for the possibility that this revised edition of my life still has promise. I’m still here for a reason and I know, in my core, that Matt wants me to go all in on that. I am so, so glad we moved back to Baltimore. The energy of the city brings out so much life in me. I love being close to our friends and family here. On the heels of what is most definitely a tough season for all of us, I’m just going to love myself, whichever version that is, through it all. And the story, my story, continues to be written.

• 

Until next time,

Xtina