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Joan Price

Posts Tagged ‘grief’

Sex After Grief: Do you want to share your experiences?

Sex is complicated enough when it’s easy — but when we’re in grief, it’s especially mysterious and confusing. How do we nurture ourselves as sexual beings when we’re grieving the death of a partner? Why does taking care of ourselves sexually even matter when we’d rather hide under the covers and wail? What do we do with those sexual feelings that arise despite our misery? How do we know when it’s time to open ourselves to a new sexual relationship, whether it’s a friend with benefits or a new love connection?

I am thrilled to tell you that I’m writing a new book: Sex after Grief: Navigating Your Sexuality After Loss of Your Beloved. I will draw on my own experiences as a widow since 2008. I’ll share my own raw grief journey, my sexual reawakening (and the many
stumbles along the way), my attempts to dip my toes in the dating pool, and what I learned.
This book won’t just be about me, though. As I’ve done in all my books about senior sex, I’ll include excerpts from other people’s personal stories, which will help readers see that we who have grieved have much in common, yet also much that’s different. There’s no right or wrong method or timeline for bringing our sexuality back to into our lives, whether it’s with our own hands, a well-placed vibrator, a hook-up, a new companion, or any combination.
This is where you come in. If you have experienced the grief of your partner’s death, how did you get sexual again? What was the hardest thing about opening yourself to sex with a new partner? What lessons did you learn about sex and grief that you’d be willing to share with others? What worked for you? What didn’t work? What did you learn along the way?

Additionally, I could use your experiences and perspective in these areas:

2/19/19 update: I edited this list again, deleting those topics that I no longer need and adding a few new ones. If you’d like to share your personal experiences or tips, even just a couple of sentences, I’d love to hear from you. I’ll use short excerpts from your sex-after-grief journeys along with my own, plus quotes from professionals. Choose one of these topics and email me with “Sex after Grief” as your subject header if you’d like to contribute. **DEADLINE 2/25/19!** 

  • Your first partnered sex after/during grief, what it meant to you then, what it means to you now
  • How did you know when you were ready for partnered sex with a new person?
  • Feelings of guilt/betrayal of deceased partner when you wanted sex or had sex with a new person
  • Sex after grief when you’re in a non-traditional relationship style: poly, kink, etc.
  • Adventuresome sex after partner’s death
  • Getting sexual in stages
  • Advice  about sex and grief from your grief counselor/ therapist/ coach/ surrogate
  • Dating while grieving
  • Your first time with a new partner — how did it go?
  • Communicating with a new (or potential) sex partner about desires, boundaries, uncertainty, safer sex
  •  Solo sex during grief
  • What happened next? How you moved forward. Reflections on how far you’ve come.
  • Advice for newly bereaved
  • Unexpected joy with new sexual partner
  • Cautionary tales, warnings while we’re vulnerable
If you’d like to contribute your wisdom or your story, please email me at this link with the subject “Sex after Grief.” **DEADLINE 2/25/19!** If you prefer, you may post your comment here instead of emailing — just realize that by posting, you are giving me permission to use excerpts from your comment.
Whether you post or email, I won’t divulge your name or identifying details in excerpts that I use. You’ll be anonymous in the book. Exception: If you’re a grief counselor, therapist, book author, grief support leader, sex educator, etc. who would like to be quoted with your name, specify that.

People of all genders, all sexual orientations, all relationship styles are invited to contribute. Notice that I haven’t said that you need to be age 50+. Sex after Grief will be primarily, but not exclusively, for our 50 to 80+ age group. Whether you’re older or younger than 50 and you struggled with death, bereavement, and regaining your sexuality, your story is welcome.

Thank you so much for getting involved and helping other people who share the journey we never wanted to take. I hope to hear from you.

Thank you to all of you who emailed me since I first posted this 11/25/2018. Thanks to you, this book will be filled with diverse experiences and perspectives.  

June 2019 update: the book is written!  Sex after Grief: Navigating Your Sexuality After Losing Your Beloved comes out August 2019! Learn more here.  

Eight Years Later… reflections on loving, losing, and living on

August 2, 2008: I kissed Robert, my husband and great love, for the last time. Exactly seven years before that, we kissed for the first time. Over the years I’ve chronicled our love story and my grief story. Last year at this time, I had been without him for the same number of years as we were together. Today, I had to tick off another year without him.

I wasn’t sure whether — or how — I would write about this today. I read my past posts about losing Robert, and my past posts about loving Robert. I reread the little book he wrote just before he died: the last thoughts he wanted to share.

Then when I started reading some of the cards and letters he wrote me, I decided I’d let Robert speak for himself. I share some of these to show you that it’s never too late to find your great love, and maybe we shouldn’t settle for anything less.

If your beloved is with you still, please set aside the petty things that annoy you, solve the big issues as best you can, communicate your needs in an honest and loving way, and please let your loved one know your gratitude and appreciation. Surprise your loved one with sweet messages. Make every day together count.

And if you’ve lost your loved one, know that it does get better year by year, especially if you stay active and let people get close to you. It’s all too easy to close down and shut people out. But don’t! Find ways to live with joy and clarity. Keep learning. Use your skills and knowledge to help others.

Front of postcard

One the first anniversary of Robert’s death, a grief counselor suggested that I do one thing that honors my memory of Robert, one thing that I’ve never done before, and one thing that helps other people. That turned out to be good advice, not just at year one, but at every anniversary, birthday, and holiday — those days when the pain can be especially sharp.

Moving forward, I’ve learned, doesn’t mean that we’ve left our loved one behind — it means we take with us what we shared, what we learned, and above all, that we know how to love and live fully. Eventually we find that the tears diminish as laughter grows, and when our hearts open, joy can enter.

Back of postcard

I welcome your comments.

Remembering Robert today

I’m missing Robert terribly today. Tomorrow is Father’s Day. I’m reminded of the beautiful photo that his son, Mitch Rice, posted on his Facebook page last Father’s Day.

I never knew Robert as the dashing 50-year-old dancer in the photo — he was 64 when we met (still dashing and still a dancer!), and I was 57. Looking back, we were youngsters. I’m now 71; he would have been 78. How I wish we could have grown old together.

In case you’re new to our story, Robert and I had exactly seven years together — first kiss to last kiss — before we lost him to cancer. Our love story catapulted me into this world I inhabit now, the world of writing and speaking about senior sex. This August, I will have had as many years without him as with him. 


Today I bought a new car. I sold Robert’s 2006 Volvo, which I had been driving since he died. It felt like one more letting-go to sell his car. A few months ago, my 16-year-old cat Amo died. Robert had never liked a cat before, let alone loved one. He loved Amo.

I know that my memories of Robert won’t fade just because my cat died and his car is gone, but it feels like some pages of our time together have been ripped out, or maybe I’m living chapters of a new book that doesn’t include him. I don’t know if I’m making sense, or even if it’s a good idea to write this for my public blog instead of my private journal — perhaps you’ll tell me.

And yet, much as I still ache to hold my sweet Robert, to kiss his warm lips and hear his loving voice, I’m never truly without him. He’s here in my house with his art adorning my walls. He sends me bird chirps and flowers and the occasional salamander. He rustles the trees and smiles at me on the dance floor. He tells me how proud he is when I finish a new book — a book he’ll never get to read.

Driving my new car home, I was nervous. I’ve been in two extremely serious automobile accidents. They were both the fault of other drivers, but still, I don’t trust my driving skills, and driving a car I’m not used to makes me anxious. I was trying to relax, when suddenly I felt that Robert was sitting in the seat beside me. 
I don’t mean I was hallucinating. No, I knew the seat was empty. Nevertheless, he was there, and he reassured me in a gentle voice. 
“Are you here to make sure I’m safe?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said.  
For the rest of the drive home, I played songs that he had loved, or that we had danced to together, or that reminded me of him for some other reason. 
Thank you, Robert, for loving me so deeply and teaching me to love fully. I take that with me on my path.

Valentine’s Day 2013

(Robert can’t stop laughing after pulling my hat down)

 For Valentine’s Day this year (2013), I’m re-publishing the post I wrote in 2011, updating it slightly.

I always loved Valentine’s Day with Robert. We bought each other gifts, professed our love for each other emphatically and often poetically. We spent the afternoon making love, glorying in the magic of  the powerful passion we felt for each other. We would love each other for hours — a candle lighted even in the bright light of afternoon, the bedroom door closed though we were alone in the house. I can still feel the touch of his skin, the sweet pressure of his lips. I hear the love words he muttered.

Dancing was always a part of our self-expression and love expression. One of “our songs” was Anne Murray’s “Could I Have This Dance?”

Could I have this dance
for the rest of my life?
Would you be my partner
Every night?
When we’re together,
It feels so right.
Could I have this dance
for the rest of my life?

Every Valentine’s Day and birthday — and sometimes New Year’s Eve, too! — he danced for me:  a special dance he had created just to please and entice me. He practiced for days in private, choosing the music,  the choreography, and the costume that he would shed slowly and sensuously as part of his dance.

2013: This is my fifth Valentine’s Day without Robert. It wasn’t until the third one that I was able to remember his special dances without crying. What beautiful gifts he gave me throughout our seven years together.  What beautiful gifts he gives me still, as I remember him.

For all of you who have a special loved one on this Valentine’s Day, glory in what you share. Never take for granted that “the rest of my life” means anything more than “this moment right now.”

For all of us who are unpartnered on this Valentine’s Day, let’s glory in the love we know how to give, and let’s give it to ourselves and the people in our lives today. Let’s do something special that nurtures us and delights us. Let’s make someone else feel special. Let’s celebrate our capacity to feel joy. The more love we give, the more we have within us.

On this 2013 update, a good friend is just home from the hospital after suffering a heart attack. “I died three times,” he told me — that’s how often they had to re-start his heart. We need to make a special point always of letting the people we love know that we love them. We never know how much time we have.

Whether or not you have a lover right now, you do have people in your life who make your life better just by being in it. On Valentine’s Day or any day, tell them how you feel.

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