I Can Do It Alone—But I Don’t Want To

Some moments in life bring it all rushing back.

Recently, I had a couple of emotional, weighty conversations with my daughters. The kind of conversations that crack your heart open, where you feel the full weight of being their one steady place. The kind of moments that if you’ve lost your person, you know exactly what I mean when I say: I wanted to call Steve. I needed him. Not for a solution. Not even necessarily for advice. I needed that grounding presence, the one who would know how to hold space, say the right thing or nothing at all and simply be there. My person.

That’s when it hit me like a wave: I don’t have anyone to call.

There was a split-second of panic. And then the quiet, aching realization that comes from a decade of widowhood. I can do this alone. I have done so much alone. But in this moment, this situation, this feeling, I didn’t want to do it alone.

Family and friends are incredible, and I’m endlessly grateful for them. But there’s something different about your person. The one who’s invested in every inch of your life, big and small. The one who sees the whole of you, even the parts you hide from the rest of the world. The one who doesn’t need the story because they’ve lived it with you. The one who makes the hard things just a little more bearable and the good things even sweeter.

As my dear friend Bela once said, it’s the person who is the “lid to your pot.” That image stays with me. It speaks to the kind of connection that fits, that seals in all the messy, beautiful, boiling-over parts of life and keeps it all just a little more contained, a little more whole.

These moments reminded me that, yes, I can handle things. I’ve proven that, over and over. But just because I can doesn’t mean I want to. That was a powerful realization. A vulnerable one, too. They also disrupted my rhythm, which is a gentle way of saying they threw my mojo way off. I found myself feeling scattered, tired, a little untethered. And I knew: it was time to return to the basics.

When life gets heavy, I go back to what has always helped me find my footing:

• A quiet morning routine, even if it’s just 15 minutes with my journal or a few deep breaths with coffee in hand.

• Moving my body. Nothing fancy, just a walk, a stretch, a reminder that I’m still here.

• Nourishing food that doesn’t come from a box.

• Reaching out, even when it’s easier to retreat.

• Revisiting the practices and tools I leaned on in those early days of grief—because they still work.

Most of all, I remind myself that yearning for connection isn’t weakness. It’s human. Wanting a partner again doesn’t erase the love I had. It honors it. It acknowledges that I was built for companionship, for deep love, for sharing a life.

If you’ve ever felt this ache for your person, I want you to know you’re not alone. Whether your person is gone, or simply hasn’t arrived yet, it’s okay to long for them. To miss them. To cry about it, journal about it, talk about it. It’s okay to have moments where it feels unfair and overwhelming.

And it’s also okay to hope again. To want someone to come home to. To want a soft place to land. To want laughter, late-night conversations, the comfort of being seen. That doesn’t make you needy. That makes you real.

So if you're in a season of missing, searching or simply yearning, be gentle with yourself. Go back to your basics. Anchor yourself in what you can control. And keep your heart cracked open just enough to let the light—and maybe one day, someone new—find their way in.

Because no matter how strong we are (and we are so strong), none of us were meant to do life completely alone.