As I stand before my husband’s “shrine,” I pause to take in the scene. His picture catches my eye first. That smile—so warm, so genuine—was one I captured, a smile that felt like it belonged to me. Beside it, his ashes rest in a beautiful urn, etched with the tree of life. In front of that, our rings sit quietly—symbols of devotion, unity, trust, respect, and love that will never fade, love that endures beyond time and space.
I had no clear timeline for when I would take my rings off. I only knew that if I followed my heart, I couldn’t go wrong. Removing them didn’t mean my love had ended or that I had moved on; grief doesn’t work that way. No one ever truly “moves on” from the death of their life partner—we move forward, carrying them in our hearts, seeing them in our children’s laughter, hearing their voice in quiet moments. Taking off my rings simply meant I was ready to take the next steps in my life, whatever those might be. It was a deeply personal decision, one that involved no one else but me. Naturally, I wondered what people might think, but to my surprise, no one said a word. The freedom of making that choice for myself was profoundly beautiful.
The act of removing the rings was quiet and unceremonious. There were no lists, no debates—just a gentle, silent understanding in my heart. One day, I placed my engagement ring down. I didn’t know why exactly; something within me simply felt ready. For a time, I left only my wedding band on. It felt right, oddly comforting, and I went on like that for about a month.
Then, roughly five months after Albert’s passing, I considered removing my wedding band. This felt like a much heavier decision. I worried about appearances—how I would be seen as a single mother, a single woman. “Will people judge me? Will they think I’ve moved on too soon? Will I feel ashamed?” I feared the scrutiny of family, friends, even strangers. But more than anything, I knew I was ready for this step, and it needed to be on my terms.
The day I finally removed it, I went out with girlfriends for a night of laughter and connection. I didn’t do it to attract attention or seek validation; I did it to honor myself. That evening, I felt like the woman I once knew—vibrant, joyful, and in control of her life again. The absence of the rings didn’t feel wrong. In that moment, I understood that timing is personal; there is no right or wrong moment. You know when you know. And I knew.
The very next day was a bitter-sweet convergence—our seventh wedding anniversary and Father’s Day. I woke to a wave of grief, feeling paralyzed by sadness. The joy of yesterday seemed far away. I slid my wedding band back onto my finger and let the tears flow, unrestricted. I remembered our wedding day—the way he cried when I walked down the aisle, how tender and romantic his heart always was. I recalled dancing all night with family and friends, leaving the venue under sparkling lights, then stopping at 7-Eleven for Slurpees in our formal attire, unnoticed yet wholly content. Later, friends delivered trays of leftover fried chicken, and we laughed together on the bed, savoring every moment. That day, with all its chaos and love, felt perfect. Wearing my ring gave me strength, and it stayed on through the day.
The following day, I placed both my engagement and wedding rings beside his urn and picture. I know I can wear them again whenever I wish—and I have, on occasion—then remove them once more. There are no rules. Love doesn’t need objects to endure. Rings are symbols; love is eternal. As I continue forward, I carry Albert with me always—inside me, inside our son Theo, and woven into every part of my life. Nothing, not even time, can change that.
