Love after loss: Reflecting on Valentine’s Day as a young widow
February 2026
As Valentine’s Day approaches, WAY member Astrid reminds us that love isn’t just found in romance or grand gestures. After losing her husband 13 months ago, she reflects on the quieter, everyday love she misses most – and the powerful ways love continues to show up through friendship, family and the widowed community.
“When people think of Valentine’s Day, they think of romance. Flowers. Cards. Candlelit dinners. Big gestures of love. When I tell people I’m a widow, a familiar response around this time of year is, “We don’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day anyway”.
It’s said gently, meant as reassurance. As if the absence of grand romance might somehow soften the loss. But it doesn’t.
Because the truth is, there is nothing more I would love than to not really be celebrating Valentine’s Day with my husband. I would give anything to have him forget it was Valentine’s Day entirely, then remember at the last minute, panic on the way home, grab some flowers, and walk through the door to me and our girls – a bunch for me, and a rose each of them. That was always his way.
We didn’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day, especially after we had our children. Not because the love was smaller, but because it felt complete. Creating a family together felt like we had already won the lottery. There was no need for extravagant plans or romantic getaways. We had built something far more powerful than any candlelit dinner.
Our love lived in the ordinary. In shared evenings, inside jokes, school runs, bedtime routines and the quiet satisfaction of doing life side by side. That was the romance. That was the magic. And it’s that ordinariness I miss with a depth I never knew was possible.
This year will be my second Valentine’s Day as a widow. Last year, Valentine’s Day fell just days before my husband’s funeral. I spent it sitting in a hairdresser’s chair, preparing for a day I was dreading beyond words. It feels like a blur. I was functioning, but barely present.
I remember the hairdresser asking if I was doing anything nice for Valentine’s Day. I was still wearing my ring. She had always known me as someone with a husband. Without thinking, I said we were having a quiet night in. I couldn’t yet say the truth. Pretending felt easier than naming the unimaginable.
“Romantic love is only a fragment of what disappears when you lose a partner”
When people imagine what it means to lose a spouse, Valentine’s Day tends to magnify the romantic loss – the intimacy, the physical closeness, the sense of being uniquely chosen. And that loss is real. I have lost the kisses, the cuddles, the feeling of being uniquely chosen by one person above all others.
But romantic love is only a fragment of what disappears when you lose a partner.
What I have really lost is an entire life. I have lost my weekends, my routines, my identity as part of a “we.” I have lost financial stability, shared decision-making, and the quiet comfort of knowing someone else was always holding the weight with me.
I have lost my best friend.
My co-driver through life.
My co-parent.
My co-life-admin team.
I have lost the person who had my back in every room, with anyone and everyone. The person who was my safe space. That loss is astronomical. It reshapes everything.
So when Valentine’s Day reduces love to romance, it feels painfully incomplete. It’s not just that no one is buying me flowers. It’s that no one is buying them for our children either – no one modelling that quiet, everyday love their dad gave so naturally.
And yet, I am still surrounded by love. And that means the world.
Friends and family have stepped in with extraordinary care over the past year. They have organised counselling, found therapists, sent food and coffee, cared for my children, driven me to grief meet-ups, and carried me through days I could not manage alone. They have included me on Valentine’s Day rather than letting this date in the calendar become another moment of isolation. They have whisked me away on holidays and refused to let me pay. They have sent Mother’s Day cards and arranged Christmas and birthday presents.
“Love can take powerful, tangible forms even in the face of grief”
These gestures have been life-saving. They have carried me through the most difficult days, given my children stability, and reminded me that love can take powerful, tangible forms even in the face of grief.
Grief, I am learning, is love with nowhere to go. I still carry immense love for my husband, but there is no place to put it now. That truth is devastating and accepting it will take time.
But love has not disappeared.
It has expanded. It has shown up in friendship, community, and care. And this Valentine’s Day, I want to acknowledge the people who have held me and my children through the last 13 months.
I will never forget what that love has looked like.
I have also been deeply moved by the support of the WAY community, bereavement charities and groups; and my Instagram community. Many of these people I have not known for long, yet we are bound by a profound, shared understanding of loss. Within that shared experience, there is an extraordinary sense of love, care and belonging. We show up for one another, we nurture one another, and we genuinely want to help ease each other’s load. Watching this level of compassion grow between what were once strangers has been something truly special, and honestly, incredible.”
You can find Astrid on Instagram @astriddolan
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