On grief, freedom, and the sacred act of choosing myself
A couple of months ago, as I got into bed, I noticed that the side of the mattress I sleep on was slightly more depressed than the other.
It’s time to flip the mattress, I thought.
But as I slipped beneath the sheets, something else occurred to me.
I’ve slept on the same side of the bed for more than twenty-five years—and despite my divorce fifteen years ago, I’ve never once ventured to the other side of the bed.
As I lay there waiting for sleep to come, I wondered why I was still clinging to that old habit when I had the bed entirely to myself. I wondered why, in all that time, I hadn’t taken over the entire bed, as was fully my right to do.
Why was I still holding space for a person—and for a relationship—that had been gone for so long?
That question stayed with me.
How We Shape Our Lives Around Others—Without Realizing It
In the days that followed, I began to notice something deeper.
So much of my life had quietly taken shape around the people who once occupied it. Long after they had moved on, those shapes remained—unchallenged and unquestioned.
The way I dress.
The rhythm of my daily schedule.
The meals I cook without thinking.
All of it had evolved with others in mind. And I began to wonder: What other habits am I holding onto simply because I’ve never stopped to examine them?
The Invisible Space We Keep Holding
Many women over 50 arrive at a season where something—or someone—has shifted.
A marriage ends.
A spouse passes away.
Caregiving roles dissolve.
Children leave home—a transition I explored more deeply in Becoming an Empty Nester: Identity, Loss, and Discovery.
And yet, even after these chapters close, we often continue living as though they haven’t.
We leave space at the table.
We preserve the past by leaving rooms untouched.
We maintain routines that are no longer necessary.
We postpone our own needs out of habit.
We don’t hold this space because we’re weak—but because we sometimes don’t know how to move on and maintaining the status quo can be a way to feel safe when so much is changing around us.
Taking Stock as an Act of Self-Love
This isn’t about erasing the past or rushing toward a reinvention of yourself or your life.
It’s about pausing long enough to take stock.
To gently ask ourselves—without judgment—
Is this habit still needed?
Am I holding space for something that no longer needs it?
For women over 50, this kind of reflection can be deeply liberating. It allows us to consciously release patterns that once made sense, but now quietly limit us.
And it can happen slowly. Tenderly. On our own timelines.
Reclaiming Space Is Not Letting Go of Love
For those moving through grief, this matters deeply:
Reclaiming your space is not an abandonment of those you’ve loved.
Taking up room again does not diminish what was shared.
Honoring your own needs—your space, your time, your preferences—is not a betrayal. It is an act of self-love. We are allowed to grow into the versions of ourselves that make sense for the lives we’re living now.
And if you’re not ready? That’s okay too. There is no timetable for healing.
Seeing Freedom Where We Once Saw Loss
What if this stage of life can be about something besides loss?
What if it’s about permission?
Permission to dress for yourself and cook what you crave.
Permission to redecorate your home according to your own tastes.
Permission to repurpose that old bedroom into a room you’ll use.
Permission to shape your days around your own rhythms and joys.
Not because someone else is gone—but because you are still here.
Sleeping in the Middle of the Bed: Taking Up Space After 50
These days, I sleep in the middle of my bed—sprawled out, uncontained, taking up every inch. I sometimes even sleep sideways or upside down—because I can.
I dress for myself now (something I’ve written about before in The Freedom in Creative Self Expression). I cook for myself. I’ve turned my son’s childhood bedroom into a meditation room.
I decide what I want to do—and just as importantly, what I don’t.
Like starting to use a muscle that’s been neglected for far too long, my ability to choose myself is getting stronger. I’m learning to say yes only to what aligns with my happiness, and no without apology.
And it feels less like becoming someone new—and more like coming home to who I’ve always been.
A Gentle Invitation
If you’re a woman over 50 standing in the quiet aftermath of change, consider this a soft invitation—not a directive.
Look around your life.
Notice where space is still being held.
Ask whether it still needs to be.
And when you’re ready—step gently into that space yourself.
You’ve earned it.
The Unfurling
The echo of your leaving left a hollow sound,
A landscape shifted, where I could not be found.
My edges frayed, my colors washed to gray,
I searched for me in remnants of that day.The world rushed on, a blur of hurried pace,
While I stood still in grief’s unyielding space.
I wore a mask of “fine,” a practiced smile,
But inside, storms raged for a little while.The broken bits, they scattered on the floor,
Each shard a memory I couldn’t ignore.
They whispered tales of what was lost and gone,
A silent reminder that I carry on.But time, it turns, sometimes fast or slow,
And in the quiet, seeds of self began to grow.
A breath, a choice, a tiny step to take,
To claim the space that sorrow tried to break.I didn’t rush—no grand, dramatic scene,
Just learning how to hold what I had been.
The tears that fell, they watered barren ground,
And strength I thought was lost was slowly found.My wounds became the map that led me home,
No longer shattered, but a mosaic grown.
The silence wasn’t empty, it was deep,
Where secrets of my own true self I’d keep.So I stand now, not whole as I was then,
But more, much more, a woman born again.
And every day I choose myself anew—
The unfurling is the proof that I came through.Written by Tracy R. with the help of ChatGPT
