Shit together (kind of), the next chapter is now

It’s occurred to me there’s a good chance I’ll never get my shit together.

I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit because I’ve been reviewing the tagline for my blog: “Widowed Tango Foxtrot: the story of a women just trying to get her shit together."

Widowed Tango Foxtrot is not up for debate for a multitude of reasons but foremost is I identify as a widow and the tango and foxtrot are my favourite dances! OK, so I’m lying about this. The real reason, as you may have guessed (if you interact with me), is that WTF is my favourite saying. Right after My Favourite Husband (WTF) died, I said WTF a lot. I tried to keep it classy, maybe just a bit sassy but I’ll tell you there were a lot of WTF moments. Still are. I’d like to think I have a handle on my path forward — and mostly I do — but, like any other life-altering occurrence, something will stop me in my tracks and make me go, “What the actual fuck is happening right now?"

So WTF is not up for review. 

But Part 2 of that tagline — “the story of a woman just trying to get her shit together” — that’s 

my rethink. MFH died Aug. 10, 2021. It’ll be three years very soon.

I was a mess. I thought I was a mess although the people closest to me thought I was a rock. A pillar of strength. A guide who helped navigate through grief — mine and theirs. I’m glad I looked the part because, inside, I was a mess. I felt like my solid, sturdy life changed overnight to a piece of exquisite Japanese pottery that was dropped. Shattered. How was I going to repair that piece of pottery? How was I going to put the pieces together knowing that, no matter what I do, it will never be the same?

How was I going to get my shit together?  Or was my shit together? Did my shit even need to be together? Cue WTF.

Over the past three years I’ve thrown my hands the air and declared that it is not together! I’ve stood on countless soapboxes and proclaimed, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” And you know what? That could be true of anybody. I’ve made funeral arrangements. I’ve dealt with benefit coordinators and a grief counsellor; financial advisors and lawyers. I became a flight attendant and I’ve travelled solo. Stayed in the hospital by myself. I’ve tried new classes, made new friends and strengthened bonds with ones who have been in my heart for a lifetime. I’ve tried dating — failed abysmally but I tried. 

That’s the key word: tried. Sometimes succeeded, sometimes not. But I keep pushing forward. I keep trying. I'm taking that beautiful gold lacquer, painting into the crevices of that broken pottery and creating a kintsugi masterpiece worthy of my life.

Just because I was fragmented, just because I’m someone new and different doesn’t mean that I don’t have my shit together. Just because I don’t have a clear, predetermined path forward doesn’t mean it’s not together. Just because I’m choosing to make some decisions on the fly and just because I’m choosing to let some of my life unfold however it likes doesn’t mean I don’t have it together. 

So yes, I've been thinking about this a lot and I think the time is right to embrace who I am, how I live — a woman who clearly has her shit together. 

Widowed Tango Foxtrot. The next chapter is now.