Traveling Without Your Person

This month, I am traveling to Sweden for the wedding of one of Steve’s relatives.

Eleven years ago, the idea of taking a big international trip alone would have completely overwhelmed me. Honestly, even small trips felt overwhelming back then. The logistics. The loneliness. The responsibility of managing everything myself. Walking into a hotel room alone. Sitting at airports alone. Having nobody to turn to when travel plans changed or something went wrong.

Travel after loss feels very different.

Not just emotionally, but practically.

Before Steve died, I do not think I fully appreciated how much we naturally divided and conquered while traveling. One person rented the car while the other grabbed the luggage. One person handled directions while the other managed the kids. There was always someone to share decisions with, laugh with, vent to or simply sit beside during a long travel day.

When that person is suddenly gone, even simple travel can feel heavy.

I still remember those first trips with our daughters after Steve died. They were young, and I felt enormous pressure to keep life moving forward for them. I wanted them to still experience joy, adventure and family traditions, even though our world had completely fallen apart.

But underneath those trips was exhaustion.

I was carrying all of the emotional weight, all of the planning, all of the decision making and all of the responsibility. There was no handing things off. No backup adult. No built-in teammate.

And honestly, there were many moments when solo travel just sucked.

Not because I could not do it. I did it. But because I did not want to have to do it alone.

I think that is an important distinction widows often do not say out loud enough.

Strength and loneliness can exist at the same time.

People would often say things like, “You are so brave” or “I could never do that alone.” And while I appreciated the sentiment, part of me always thought, “This is not bravery. This is necessity.”

Over the years, though, something shifted.

Travel no longer feels terrifying to me. I know how to navigate airports, countries, logistics and unexpected problems on my own. I have traveled for work, with friends, with my daughters and occasionally completely solo. I have learned that I am capable. I trust myself now in ways I never used to.

But even after all these years, there are still moments when the absence feels incredibly noticeable.

Like arriving somewhere beautiful and instinctively wanting to turn and share the moment with your person. Or sitting down at dinner alone after a long day. Or attending a family wedding without the family member who connected you there in the first place.

That is what feels emotional about this Sweden trip for me.

I am excited to go. I genuinely want to celebrate this family milestone. I am grateful for the opportunity to travel and experience something new.

And at the same time, there is still sadness woven into it.

Steve should be there.

He should be at the wedding. He should be introducing people. He should be laughing with relatives. He should be standing beside me on the trip home talking about our favorite moments.

Widowhood has taught me that joy and sadness often travel together.

You do not eventually arrive at a place where grief fully disappears from meaningful moments. Instead, you learn how to carry both. Gratitude and grief. Excitement and sadness. Independence and loneliness.

All at once.

And maybe that is what healing really looks like.

Not the absence of grief. Not pretending everything feels fine. Not “moving on.”

But learning how to continue living fully while still honoring the love and loss that will always travel with you.

I used to think the goal was to get to a place where doing things alone no longer felt hard.

Now I think the goal is something different: To build a life where you do not stop yourself from living simply because parts of it still feel hard sometimes.

So yes, I am going to Sweden alone.

And yes, part of me still hates that.

But I am going anyway.