How I’m Embracing Love After Losing My Husband

By Ashley Habib

If I can’t give my heart to him, then I want to give it to our loved ones. By being there for each other, we can hold on to a small amount of what we lost. 

Ten years ago, I spent the long hours of Valentine’s Day pretending not to notice the date on the calendar. I didn’t want to get my hopes up; my boyfriend and I had been together for less than a year and he lived on another continent to boot. I didn’t know what to expect. Finally, the flowers arrived at eight in the evening: an embarrassingly large display of crimson roses fully encased in a tall glass vase. I don’t love red roses, but I didn’t care—he remembered. 

As the years went by, we celebrated our love by adopting a dog, buying our wedding bands, getting pregnant. After we became parents, we pulled out the sofa bed to watch movies at home with cheeseboards and chocolate. There were nine more beautiful bouquets. But today, like that first Valentine’s Day, I don’t know what to expect. My beloved husband passed away less than a year ago. 

Sometime in mid-January, as the first candy hearts began to line the shelves, I decided would do everything I could to avoid this day. I was going through a particularly hard grief period, and I didn’t need an arbitrary celebration (I have already weathered our wedding anniversary, Father’s Day, birthdays, and the major holidays) to remind me of what I am missing. 

Love after loss

But you know what they say about best laid plans. I happen to have a child who loves Valentine’s Day: “Mama, it’s my favorite holiday, because we get to spread love!” Leave it to my six-year-old to set me straight. Per usual. As February drew closer, I realized there would be no getting around it. Today would have to become a part of my grief process like all the rest. 

With so much emphasis on romantic love this month, my intention is to embrace love in its many other forms. Today may not be filled with flowers, but I can honor the love we nurtured by encouraging myself to love wholeheartedly, even if that means loving differently through the pain. It means keeping an open heart so that instead of drifting into a dark place, I can continue to love myself, my daughter, our community, and my husband’s memory. 

When you lose your person, there is no satisfying emotional or physical outlet. In my case, the love I can’t share with my husband builds up inside, like a steam pipe threatening to burst.

During an appearance on The Late Show last year, actor Andrew Garfield said that grief is the love that remains with us after our loved ones are gone. Where can that love go? When you lose your person, there is no satisfying emotional or physical outlet. In my case, the love I can’t share with my husband builds up inside, like a steam pipe threatening to burst. The only way to release the valve is to continue to grow love with an open heart.

Loving myself again

Practicing self-love has been the most challenging part. In the early weeks of my grief, I tried not to look down at myself in the shower because the pain of knowing that he would never touch my skin again was too sharp. Likewise, I couldn’t bring myself to unroll my yoga mat, despite movement being my medicine. I felt afraid that my muscles would lose the memory of his presence. I didn’t want to be in my body without him in his. 

Practicing self-love has been the most challenging part. In the early weeks of my grief, I tried not to look down at myself in the shower because the pain of knowing that he would never touch my skin again was too sharp.

It took me some time to realize that by not acknowledging my own existence, my flesh and blood, I was doing myself more harm than good. My daily yoga practice is my solace, my home, the state in which I love myself the most. I need to be in my own body, so that I can embody love for those around me. 

The time I spend on my mat may equate to more screen time for my daughter than I would like, but I honestly don’t care if it means that I can show up for her later. Now that I am her only parent, I feel that I need to love her even harder than before. Parenting a child while grieving feels impossible because children are just so alive. My daughter is an abiding reminder that I need to keep living, too. 

I find the purest love in moments of presence with her when I zoom in and everything else falls away: holding hands on the walk to school, pre-bedtime dance parties, and Sunday brunch dates. Loving her during this season in our lives means modeling both softness and strength, so I hold our grief at bedtime and then wake up in the morning to make pancakes for breakfast. It also looks like surrounding her with our family, friends, and extended community as much as possible.  

Showing up for each other

My husband and I were each other’s home. Since his death I have struggled with the sensation that I have lost my foundation. The truly remarkable thing about our love is the community we have cultivated individually and as a couple. They are the glue that holds my life, and my broken heart, together right now. They are our home. 

Our loved ones are the glue that holds my life, and my broken heart, together right now. They are our home.

I am humbled every day by the way our loved ones—including new friends and people I have never even met—show up for me and my daughter, and for my husband. Their care for us is a manifestation of their love for him. I feel held by these people; if I can’t be in his arms, then I want to be in theirs. And if I can’t give my heart to him, then I want to give it to our loved ones. They can’t replace him for me, nor can I replace him for them, but by being there for each other we can hold on to at least a small amount of what we lost. 

I know it sounds cliché, but I lost my soulmate. Like every marriage, ours had ups and downs. But more often than not, my heart would swell with joy at the thought of him, and I would text him at times to say, “I can’t imagine loving anyone more than I love you.” Sometime in the aftermath a dear friend sent me the poem The Window by Rumi: 

Your body is away from me

but there is a window open

from my heart to yours.

From this window, like the moon

I keep sending news secretly.

This is where the love goes; this is how I embrace loving my husband now. There is a window through which I continue to send those messages: I will never love anyone as much as I love you. 

Ashley Habib is a New York City-based mother, writer, yoga instructor, wellness coach, and creative consultant.