Finding Your Tribe Part 2: When Hope Meets Reality- A Widow's Search for Community

Part 2: The Continuing Search

After that disappointing "Widows Luncheon," I still held onto hope that somewhere out there existed a community where I might belong. Where someone might understand the particular complexities of young widowhood and solo parenting through grief.

One Sunday morning, driving down a familiar road, I noticed a crowd of people streaming into a modern-looking building—a repurposed commercial space with clean lines and contemporary signage. They looked like me: younger, families, dressed casually but stylishly. Something in me whispered, "What if?"

I marked my calendar for the following Sunday.

Getting my daughters out of bed when all they wanted was to sleep in (I sympathized completely) took extra effort, but the longing to find connection propelled me forward. Maybe, just maybe, I'd find younger widows to befriend in this more contemporary setting.

When we arrived, the children's ministry impressed me immediately. The staff welcomed my daughters with genuine warmth, and for the first time in forever, I had an hour to myself without worrying about their care—a gift I hadn't realized how desperately I needed.

I entered the sanctuary cautiously, taking in the modern stage with its impressive screens and tasteful décor. Music played softly as I found a seat about three-quarters of the way back—close enough to participate, far enough to observe. My widow-instincts had me analyzing everything, looking for signs that I might belong here.

The music washed over me. The message resonated. The prayers felt sincere. For that hour, I allowed myself to relax into the experience, thinking: surely there must be other young moms here who understood loss. Other widows navigating this impossible journey.

Weeks turned into months into years. I attended regularly, meeting a few people here and there, though most interactions remained surface-level. Sunday after Sunday, I sat alone, shaking hands with strangers when prompted by the pastor, exchanging polite smiles that never deepened into genuine connection.

Then I began to notice a pattern. Most attendees were couples or intact family units. Many had an older woman accompanying them—a grandmother, perhaps, or a beloved aunt. Eventually, I realized many of these women were widows themselves, but they had something I lacked: a family structure that still included them, that carried them through their grief.

Eventually, I gathered my courage and approached several ministry leaders with what seemed like simple questions: "Do you have any resources for widows? Are there other young widows in the congregation I could connect with?"

Their answers were consistent: No and no.

When I asked about possibly starting a widow-focused ministry, I was met with another "no," but this time with alternatives: Would I like to join the women's group? Or perhaps the singles ministry, where I might find friendship or even a new partner?

I wasn't looking for a replacement husband. I was looking for understanding—for a widow mentor who could show me how to navigate this complexity. Someone who had walked this path and survived.

Long after the initial shock of widowhood had settled into my daily reality, people continued pointing me toward GriefShare as if it were the universal solution. Somehow, in everyone's mind, the words "widow" and "GriefShare" were the perfect answer to my multifaceted challenges. But what about the complexity of solo motherhood? The demands of running a business single-handedly? The endless tasks of managing a household alone? The monumental work of reconstructing my identity from the ground up?

These weren't just grief issues—they were life reconstruction issues that required practical support, mentorship, and specialized resources. A grief support group, however well-intentioned, wasn't even close to addressing the reality of my new existence.

Looking back, I now recognize that GriefShare functioned primarily as a "side door ministry" – a strategic pathway designed to welcome grieving individuals into the church community during their most vulnerable moments. While offering education about grief in a shared setting, it served a dual purpose that wasn't immediately apparent to me then. As my journey continues to unfold, I'll explore how this realization shaped my understanding of grief support and ultimately influenced the direction of my own path in supporting other widows. This perspective became an unexpected but important piece in the puzzle of my widow story.

Bank to the reality of my new existence. The disconnect struck me profoundly. How could a faith community that referenced caring for widows in over 80 scriptural passages not prioritize this specific form of support? For the first time since my husband's death, I felt not just alone but truly invisible.

I kept searching.

When Someone Finally Listens: An Unexpected Platform

From Invisible to Volunteering to On-Screen

Seeking purpose amid my continuing grief journey, I joined the board of New Hope for Kids, a local children's grief center. There was something healing about advocating for others, standing before community groups and explaining how vital support is for grieving families. Each time I spoke, my voice grew stronger, more confident—even as a question kept echoing in my mind:

What happens to the mothers like me when our year of support ends?

The program was genuinely transformative—providing expert guidance, community, and a safe space for my daughters and me at no cost for a full year. But then it ended, dropping us back into a world that seemed increasingly foreign to me, and I to it.

The disconnect was profound. While normal life continued around me, I existed in a parallel reality where fundamental truths had been shattered. How do you explain to someone that your heart still belongs to someone who no longer exists? How do you navigate a world designed for couples and intact families when you're permanently off-balance?

Board service and public speaking became my lifeline—a way to be seen and heard when I felt increasingly invisible in everyday life. I might not have found my tribe yet, but at least I could use my voice to ensure other families received the critical early support we had benefited from.

Then came the plot twist I never saw coming.

A TLC film crew arrived in town, scouting for families to feature in their upcoming series "Shalom in the Home." The premise was simple: a rabbi would work with struggling families to address their core issues. Somehow, my name landed on their interview list.

During my interview with the producer, they asked the question that unlocked everything: "Why do you feel stuck and misunderstood?"

Without filtering, I let the raw truth escape: "I'm in love with a man who is no longer alive. What part of that do you not understand?"

The producer's eyes widened. After a pause, they simply said, "You're perfect for the show."

I laughed then—the absurdity of having my deepest grief potentially broadcast to millions. Yet beneath that laughter was a startling realization: for the first time, someone had truly heard me. Not just the polite version of my story, but the unvarnished reality of continuing to love someone who had died, of navigating a world that expected me to "move on" when my heart refused to comply with that simplistic directive.

Perhaps being seen—truly seen—was worth the vulnerability of sharing my journey on national television. Maybe, just maybe, other young widows would be watching.

The filming process was an emotional marathon—ten days of delving into the rawest parts of my grief journey. The rabbi lived in a small Airstream parked in my front yard, a constant reminder of the emotional excavation underway. During our sessions, he would probe deeply into my experiences, and I found myself responding with defensiveness—walls built from years of navigating a world that didn't understand my reality.

It wasn't until much later that I discovered how deeply my situation had affected him. Among all the families they filmed for the series, mine was the only "only-parent" household. Every other episode featured two parents working through their challenges together, while I faced my struggles entirely alone.

There was a certain irony there—if anyone had earned the right to struggle, surely it was the widow raising children solo after devastating loss. Yet there I was, stubbornly creating my own rhythm, marching forward to the beat of a drum only I could hear. In my determination to survive, I had developed a fierce independence that both protected and isolated me.

When National Platforms Find You: The Unexpected Spotlight

When the TLC episode finally aired, they titled it "Choosing Life." They protected our privacy by calling us "the Morgans"—a pseudonym meant to shield our identity while still allowing our story to reach other widows who might be struggling in silence. I hoped our experience might resonate with even one person who needed to feel less alone.

I never imagined what would happen next. It was 2006.

My phone rang one afternoon with a call that would leave me speechless: Harpo Inc.—Oprah Winfrey's production company. They had seen the TLC episode and wanted me to appear on The Oprah Winfrey Show.

My initial elation quickly cooled when they mentioned the episode's title: "Troubled Families." After years of fighting against the current, pouring every ounce of energy into ensuring my daughters would thrive despite their loss, I couldn't bear to be categorized that way. My family wasn't troubled—we were resilient, determined, and finding our way forward despite impossible circumstances.

"I'm sorry, but I can't participate in something labeled Troubled Families,” I told the producer. "That's not who we are."

There was a pause on the line before the producer shared something unexpected. They explained that it was precisely because we weren't troubled that they needed me on the show. Our segment from TLC had inspired them to showcase what one focused, devoted, and sacrificial parent could accomplish against overwhelming odds. They wanted to present a counterpoint—a family that had faced unimaginable loss yet continued to move forward with purpose and hope.

With that clarification, I said yes.

Weeks later, I found myself sitting on Oprah's famous sofa, along with the rabbi—a young widow representing countless others like me who remained largely invisible in society. As the cameras rolled, I spoke honestly about the real challenges: the isolation, the exhaustion, the constant pressure of being both parents, the way society either pitied or Hollywood romanticized my situation without understanding it.

For those precious minutes, the spotlight wasn't just on me—it illuminated all the young widows trying to rebuild lives never meant to be navigated alone. Perhaps somewhere, watching from their living rooms, other widowed mothers might finally feel seen.