I Won’t Give Up My Widow Membership Card

Dear widow police, I’m not returning my widow membership card.

Almost six years ago, I was unwillingly inducted into one of life’s most unfortunate clubs. On October 9, 2009, I transitioned from being part of a duo, Mrs. Sarah Jensen, and the loving partner of Michael Jensen, to becoming a widow. No thanks. You can keep your membership card because at 36, with a toddler and a preschooler at home, I never wanted to join this club. I didn’t ask for it, and honestly, it’s terrible, so take it back and give me my amazing husband instead. Pretty please!

It took me a while to accept my membership in this dreadful club, and no amount of crying or anger could change the fact that I am, indeed, a widow.

The Challenges of Widowhood

As a new widow, I faced unimaginable challenges. I had to decide which parts of Michael’s body could be donated to help others. I painstakingly made choices about everything from his corneas to his skin—all during a phone call with a stranger from the donation center. It was surreal, dissecting the life of my best friend.

I crafted a careful script to explain to my nearly 3-year-old daughter what had happened to her father in the plane crash. I wanted to spare her any additional hurt; she was already dealing with so much.

That night, after putting my kids to bed, I felt like a ghost floating above our chaotic lives, completely detached from reality. The shock was so intense that I couldn’t even feel pain at that moment.

I wrote and delivered his eulogy to our family and friends. I stood at the crash site, inhaling the scent of burnt debris. I scattered his ashes in places that were dear to him.

I held his mother as she mourned her son. I was advised not to see his body, that the smell would traumatize me forever. Not saying a proper goodbye to the love of my life felt like an unbearable weight.

I read through police reports and the NTSB findings, staring at the envelope containing his autopsy report, but I never had the courage to read it. I spent months lying in bed with the lights on, feeling an emptiness that nobody else could ever fill.

Life Goes On

Life continued, and I took on both the roles of mother and father, trying to shower my kids with love to make up for the void left by their father’s death. I faced harsh judgments from those I once loved, and I didn’t fit into the social circles we had shared.

I could go on forever about the trials I faced as a widow—each one more painful than the last. Perhaps that could be a chapter in my forthcoming book. Every experience has sewn itself into the fabric of my life.

I am undeniably a widow.

Finding Strength in Community

But I also discovered that those who share my unfortunate membership are some of the most beautiful souls in the world. They have endured immense pain and emerged stronger, teaching us valuable lessons about love, patience, and the importance of cherishing the present moment. Grief is a fierce teacher, but it comes at an incredibly steep cost. I would never wish my suffering on anyone, but I would certainly wish for my perspective to be shared.

Over the years, I’ve learned to embrace my membership in this club. Widowhood hasn’t defined who I am, but it has shaped who I’ve become. I’ve built invaluable friendships with those who see life through similar lenses, and I’ve altered my goals and philosophies.

I’ve cried, laughed, learned, and grown. I’ve changed as a person and as a widow. And yes, I’ve remarried.

Embracing My Identities

Wait! What? You’ve remarried? Hand over that widow card!

People often think that marrying again means you’re no longer a widow. They forget the deep love that once was, as if it can simply be replaced. But let’s be real—I’m married now to my wonderful husband, David, and I hyphenate my last name to Jensen-Baumgard. I made the choice to seek happiness in my remaining days, and that choice is mine alone.

I am David’s wife.

I am Michael’s widow.

Those identities don’t cancel each other out. I can love my current husband while still cherishing the memory of the one I lost. When people ask if I ever stop missing Michael, the answer is a resounding no. Love is not interchangeable. Each love is unique, and true love expands the heart, even if there’s a hole left behind.

So I won’t give up my widow card.

I won’t let the naysayers dictate how I identify myself. I refuse to be boxed in or simplified into black and white. I embrace the complicated gray that is my life.

Life is messy. Love is messy. Grief is messy.

I wasn’t put on this earth to fit anyone else’s mold. I am both a wife and a widow. I am a beautifully complicated person who has loved, lost, grieved, and thrived. I’ve paid dearly to understand who I truly am.

Conclusion

In summary, this journey through widowhood has been transformative, filled with heartache, learning, and growth. It has taught me the depth of love and the importance of cherishing every moment of life.