Some weeks, my heart decides it wants to talk before my mind knows what story it’s trying to tell. This is one of those weeks.
Thanksgiving is here and right on its heels comes November 28th, my husband Chantz’s birthday. And every year, as his day approaches, I feel a quiet tug inside me. A whisper of a question I don’t always want to admit out loud:
Am I celebrating him the way he deserves?
Am I showing up fully for the man who chose to love a widow…and her shattered family?
It’s not that I don’t love him. I do. Deeply. Steadily. With that gentle, rebuilt kind of love that comes from surviving storms and choosing hope again. But there’s a part of me — the part shaped by devastating loss, the part that still talks to heaven more than most people talk to their own spouses — that sometimes slips into old grief rooms and forgets to leave the light on for the man living right beside me.
The Quiet Truth of Loving Again
When you marry after death, no one hands you a manual. There’s no “Widowhood 2.0” syllabus or “How to Let Someone New Love You When Your Heart Still Lives in Two Places” workbook.
You just fumble forward.
You do your best.
And some days…your best feels lopsided.
Jack was the first home my heart ever knew. He was the father of my children, the one who held my hand through love and parenthood and unthinkable tragedy. Losing him changed who I was at the cellular level.
So sometimes, when I find myself thinking more about those who are gone than the man right in front of me, I feel guilty. Not because Chantz ever asks for more — but because I do.
Because I want to love him with a heart that isn’t afraid of breaking again.
Because I want to give him the celebration, the joy, the “this is your life and I’m grateful you’re in mine” energy he deserves.
And because he has walked into rooms most people never dare to enter: the rooms of a grieving mother, a grieving wife, a grieving daughter, a grieving sister. He didn’t ask for easy, he asked for us. Broken pieces and all.
What It Takes for a Man to Love a Widow
There is research — not tons, but enough to make you stop and appreciate the miracle of second love.
Here’s what we know:
Men who love widows often carry a quiet, invisible emotional labor.
They love in the shadows of memories they never lived, birthdays they never celebrated, and traditions that came long before them.
They often feel pressure to “measure up,” even though no one is asking them to replace anyone.
They step into a story already halfway told — and bravely decide to become part of the next chapter.
Widows tend to guard their hearts more tightly.
Traumatic loss rewires the brain. Safety feels fragile. Attachment feels risky. So loving again often feels like tiptoeing into cold water while the new partner is already swimming.
And yet — remarriage after loss has higher rates of emotional maturity, loyalty, and intentionality.
People who’ve lost deeply love deeply.
Because they know the cost.
And the gift.
Chantz has done all of this without complaint. Without ego. Without ever asking me to shrink my grief.
He walked into a home decorated with memories of people he barely met.
He loved a daughter who grieved like an old soul.
He honored a husband whose boots he never tried to fill.
He held space for birthdays we can’t celebrate here anymore…while having the humility to quietly hope that someday, we’d celebrate him just as wholeheartedly.
That deserves a moment.
That deserves a thank you.
And that absolutely deserves a birthday full of warmth, love, appreciation — and maybe a little Husker football wins.
Maybe the Reason I Don’t Always Feel “Home” Has Nothing to Do With Him
This part took me a long time to admit:
It’s not that Chantz isn’t “home.”
It’s that grief changed what home feels like.
There’s a homesick place inside me that belongs to heaven now — to Garret, to Jack, to Seth. That ache sometimes echoes even in the happiest rooms.
And you know what?
That’s not a failure of my marriage.
It’s simply the geography of grief.
Loving Chantz doesn’t erase the longing.
And longing for those I lost doesn’t diminish the love I have now.
Two truths can coexist.
They often do.
So How Do You Love Again While Honoring Who Came Before?
Here are a few guiding reflections for anyone navigating dating or remarriage after loss:
1. Speak the names of the people you loved.
A good partner won’t feel threatened by your memories. They’ll join you in honoring them.
2. Celebrate your new partner with intention.
Make their birthdays, milestones, and dreams matter. They deserve their own space, not whatever “leftovers” you have emotionally.
3. Communicate the “grief waves.”
Let them know when your heart is elsewhere. It prevents misunderstandings and creates intimacy.
4. Don’t compare your loves — cherish them separately.
Your first love isn’t your template.
Your second love isn’t your replacement.
They’re two different chapters in the same story.
5. Let yourself feel unsteady sometimes.
Your heart has been asked to rebuild itself more than once.
Self-compassion is not optional — it’s survival.
To Chantz, On Your Birthday
You walked into a storm and chose us anyway.
You chose a grieving mother, a grieving daughter, a home full of stories and sadness and hope tangled together.
You chose to love gently, consistently, and without expectation.
And even when I get quiet, even when I slip into old grief corners and forget to turn the light back on…please know this:
I love you.
I see you.
I appreciate you.
And I’m still learning how to be “home” again — not because of you, but because grief rearranged the furniture.
Thank you for loving us through it.