Grief, Identity, and the Long Road Through Loss: Reflections on Widowhood, Mental Health, and My Mother’s Story - July 10, 2025

Grief is not linear. It’s messy, disorienting, and often sneaks up on us long after the flowers have wilted and the sympathy cards have been tucked away. Few people capture the raw, complicated nature of grief better than my colleague and friend, Liza Lane, in her recent HuffPost article, “The Unexpected Widow: Losing A Spouse Shattered My Identity — And Rebuilt It.” Liza’s vulnerability in sharing her story isn’t just brave—it’s a gift to so many navigating their own silent, unseen battles with loss. Her words underscore a reality mental health professionals witness every day: grief is more than sadness; it’s a profound identity crisis, an existential reckoning, and for many, a lifelong journey of reconstruction.

Reading Liza’s reflection, I couldn’t help but admire her courage in putting words to the paradox of widowhood—the collision of deep love and unbearable absence. She reminds us that becoming a widow isn’t merely about losing a partner; it’s about losing the shared history, routines, dreams, and the version of oneself that existed within that relationship. As Liza writes, her identity wasn’t just altered; it was shattered, leaving behind fragments of a life once whole. This type of identity disruption is a psychological earthquake, one that mental health research has long recognized as one of the most destabilizing experiences a person can endure.

Liza’s article hit home for me on a deeply personal level. My own mother became a widow at just 35 years old. I was there to witness the aftermath—the overwhelming, consuming loss that, truthfully, she never fully recovered from. Society often expects the bereaved to move forward after some arbitrary period of mourning, to rebuild, to reclaim themselves. But watching my mother navigate widowhood showed me how, for some, that rebuilding never fully happens. For her, the loss of my father wasn’t just the loss of a partner—it was the loss of identity, stability, the future she envisioned, and ultimately, the version of herself that existed before that tragedy. Her grief lingered not because she was weak, but because the foundation of her life had been ripped away.

From a clinical perspective, Liza’s experience reflects what psychologists refer to as “secondary losses.” The death of a spouse is the primary loss, but it unleashes a cascade of secondary losses—roles, daily patterns, social circles, even one’s sense of self—that compound grief and deepen emotional distress. Too often, society’s well-intentioned but overly simplified narratives of grief fail to acknowledge these nuanced layers. People are told to “stay strong” or “move on,” as if the person grieving can simply detach from the life they painstakingly built with another human being. Liza’s words dismantle that myth with honesty and grace, reminding us that healing doesn’t mean forgetting, and rebuilding doesn’t mean erasing the past.

In the mental health field, we understand grief through many theoretical lenses: Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages, Worden’s tasks of mourning, or more contemporary models like meaning reconstruction. But Liza’s story is a living testament to what those frameworks often miss—the deeply personal, non-linear, and identity-altering process of rebuilding after loss. Her account echoes what I’ve heard from countless clients facing similar heartbreak: that grief is not a clean-cut process with a tidy conclusion. Instead, it’s a reshaping of identity, relationships, and one’s very place in the world.

Liza’s journey also highlights the often-overlooked intersection of grief and mental health stigma. Society permits grief to exist—but only within certain boundaries. There’s a quiet, unspoken timeline imposed on mourners. Weeks turn into months, and the world expects productivity to resume, emotions to settle, and life to return to “normal.” But for many, especially those like Liza and my mother who lost their life partners unexpectedly and at a young age, there is no return to normal. There’s only navigating a new, unfamiliar existence. In my own work as a therapist, I see how these societal pressures can deepen feelings of isolation and shame, as grievers internalize the message that they’re “doing it wrong” if their pain persists.

What struck me most about Liza’s writing is how she gave voice to the invisible weight so many widows carry—the weight of redefining oneself in the absence of the person who anchored them. It reminded me that grief isn’t just an emotional state; it’s a full-body, cognitive, and spiritual upheaval. Liza speaks of rebuilding her identity not as a clean break from the past, but as a painstaking process of weaving grief into the fabric of her new life. That process—of integrating loss rather than avoiding or suppressing it—is essential for post-traumatic growth, a concept widely studied in psychology that speaks to the human capacity to find strength, meaning, and even purpose after trauma.

But let’s be clear: post-traumatic growth doesn’t erase pain. It doesn’t minimize the enormity of loss. What Liza models so beautifully is the coexistence of grief and resilience—the ability to honor profound pain while still forging forward. That duality is often where mental health support plays a crucial role. Therapy, support groups, and community connections provide space for people to hold both realities: the devastation of loss and the potential for rebuilding.

Her article also brings to light the grief experiences that don’t fit within neat societal expectations. Unexpected widowhood, especially at a younger age, carries unique challenges. Many widows find themselves alienated within their social circles, unsure where they belong. Their peer groups may not relate to their reality, and navigating dating, friendships, or even professional spaces becomes a minefield of awkwardness and assumptions. Liza bravely shares these complexities, challenging the oversimplified depiction of grief and inviting readers to expand their understanding.

From a mental health standpoint, one of the most protective factors in grief is the ability to share one’s story, to be seen and validated in the messiness of loss. Liza’s article is not just her story—it’s an act of advocacy for every widow, widower, or grieving person who has felt invisible in their suffering. Research consistently shows that disenfranchised grief—grief that isn’t publicly acknowledged or supported—can lead to increased depression, anxiety, and even physical health problems. By sharing her experience publicly, Liza disrupts that cycle. She opens the door for conversations that normalize grief as a long-term, non-linear process rather than a brief, private ordeal.

As a friend, I couldn’t be prouder of Liza’s willingness to turn her personal pain into a message of solidarity, awareness, and hope. As a mental health professional—and as the child of a young widow who struggled to rebuild—I’m reminded of the critical need to create more compassionate spaces for grievers to exist authentically—without timelines, judgment, or unrealistic expectations. Her words are a powerful reminder that grief is not a sign of weakness, nor is the rebuilding process evidence of having “moved on.” It’s about carrying both love and loss forward, often simultaneously, and allowing grief to shape but not define us.

Liza’s article challenges all of us to sit with discomfort, to listen deeply, and to extend empathy beyond the funeral, beyond the casseroles, beyond the socially acceptable window of mourning. It calls us to honor the complexities of loss, both for ourselves and for those around us. I encourage everyone to read her piece, to absorb the raw humanity in her words, and to recognize that behind every unexpected widow or widower is a story worthy of patience, respect, and support.

Grief changes us—but as Liza and my mother’s stories both reveal, it doesn’t have to diminish us. It can fracture, yes, but it can also forge new strength, deeper empathy, and a renewed sense of purpose. And in sharing her story, Liza Lane has given all of us a roadmap—not out of grief, but through it.

—Dr. Michael Ritchey is a Doctor of Social Work and Licensed Clinical Social Worker specializing in trauma, veteran mental health, and reintegration support. Follow @DrMichaelRitchey for more content on mental health, healing, and justice.