I found myself sitting by my partner’s grave the day I decided to download a dating app on my phone. It may seem an odd place to make such a life-altering choice, but as a 36-year-old widow with two children, stepping into the world of dating again felt monumental. I wished for Tyler, my husband, to be there with me. After all, we had vowed to face everything together—“until death do us part” and all that.
On that cold cemetery ground, under a dreary sky that felt like it belonged to some alternate reality where Tyler was still with me, I activated my profile. I was immediately confronted with a daunting question: What do you want from your potential matches? A relationship, something casual, marriage?
I didn’t yearn for a new relationship or another marriage. What I longed for was something more specific than a traditional partnership and more meaningful than a fleeting connection. I craved what I had lost—a companion who could help me navigate through life’s challenges, including a hypothetical zombie apocalypse.
Our Story
Tyler and I first crossed paths on February 4 when I was just 22 and he was 27. It was one of those fateful meetings that only happen after a few too many drinks. Our eyes met across the dance floor, and he made his way through the crowd, handing me a quirky business card featuring a toilet seat, and offered to buy me a drink.
From that moment on, our lives became seamlessly intertwined. I was young and untethered, ready to embrace the life he had to offer. I moved into his place, merged our finances, and we filed taxes together—Tyler as the primary taxpayer, and me as the supportive partner. I trusted his instincts and admired his meticulous nature, believing wholeheartedly that he would guide us well. There was even a time when I felt certain that if a zombie apocalypse were to strike, we would persevere together. He would secure us the last seats on the rescue rocket, navigating a chaotic future like a hero from a young adult novel.
But I never imagined I wouldn’t be able to save him.
The Loss
Tyler passed away on February 3, nearly thirteen years after we first met. He left this world in a hospice room dimly lit by a solitary lamp, as I synchronized my breaths with his and waited for a final exhale that never came. The absence he left in my life was immense; it felt like a chasm so deep it could swallow the sun. In those early days of mourning, darkness engulfed me, and it was all too easy to believe it would last forever.
Now, it was just me, two kids, a mortgage, and a tax return with my name alone. At 35, I found myself in the captain’s chair for the first time and steering felt nearly impossible. The truth was, I hadn’t learned how to handle the responsibilities Tyler had always managed. I didn’t know the mortgage login details, hadn’t studied health insurance deductibles, and was oblivious to how we paid our property taxes and utilities.
The ship was adrift, and despite trying to take the wheel where Tyler once guided us, my hands felt too small and inept. In a world that could potentially mirror the dystopia of “The Handmaid’s Tale,” I felt alarmingly vulnerable. I was a young woman, ill-equipped to navigate a life that had been designed for two, unsure of my own voice.
Finding My Way
I realized I needed a partner to help steer the ship again. In 2019, that meant turning to my smartphone. After fourteen months without Tyler, I finally mustered the courage to go on a date—my first in 14 years. The last time I had met someone special was on a street corner in Manhattan; this time, I found myself outside a coffee shop in a New Jersey strip mall, surprised to see he looked older than his profile picture.
While my first date years ago had me smiling uncontrollably, this time it felt like I was struggling to remember how to breathe. I engaged in conversation, using the social skills I had honed while chatting with other moms at the playground, but as he leaned in for a hug goodbye, panic surged through me. The overwhelming truth struck me: I was dating someone who wasn’t Tyler, and that made all the difference.
The next day, I texted him, explaining that I wasn’t ready to date, knowing that was painfully true. As I researched what “deductible” meant and consulted investment advisors, sleepless nights loomed, filled with worries about the many responsibilities I had yet to grasp. Yet, I arranged to meet another match for drinks, convincing myself that the only path to readiness was to “fake it ’til you make it.”
Dates two through four followed a similar pattern: a brief encounter followed by a text of regret, all while I searched for that capable captain I desperately needed. When I confided in my sister-in-law about my latest date, feeling lost and confused, she replied, “No, I think you’re finding your mind.” I yearned for her to be right, to believe that my wandering course had purpose.
Acceptance and Growth
I visited Tyler’s grave, tears streaming down my face as I faced the reality that I could never replace what I had lost. There was no app to fill that void. Yet, as I sat there, surrounded by trees that had flourished in the summer sun, I realized how much time had passed. I had grown less dependent on Google for life’s essentials, and sleep came easier knowing I was slowly patching the cracks in my life. The ship, under my guidance, hadn’t sunk—it had wobbled, tipped, and nearly capsized at times, but it was still moving forward.
I had been searching for someone to help steer, but I had been the one at the helm all along. Perhaps what I truly needed wasn’t a savior for a zombie apocalypse after all. Maybe I just wanted someone to share laughter with, to travel alongside, or to send a funny meme to—someone to navigate life’s waters beside me.
Because, maybe, I could save myself.
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In summary, as I continue to navigate this new chapter of life, I am learning that I am stronger than I ever thought possible. I have taken on the responsibility of steering my own ship, and maybe that was the journey I needed all along.
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