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By Stephanie Vozza
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When I boarded the plane to Paris, I was fulfilling a lifelong dream to visit the City of Love. Just one thing wasn’t going according to plan. Instead of traveling with my husband, David, like I’d always imagined, I was flying solo as a widow.
David had died the year before after a short battle with pancreatic cancer. Within months of his death, I also lost both of my parents. My two adult sons were grown and living in different states.
It was then I discovered I was a role follower. “Daughter.” “Wife.” “Mother.” Those identities had told me who to be, what to do and how to act. Suddenly, I was without a blueprint, navigating an unfamiliar world where no one needed me.
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My first year as a widow was about survival. I made the final arrangements and filed all the paperwork that comes with death. I cleaned out closets and lived through all the “firsts,” such as “first Christmas without him” and “first anniversary alone.”
When the second year arrived, I wondered, “Now what?” While going through a box of old papers one afternoon, I came across magazine articles I’d written when I was in my 20s—before I was a wife and mother—and I had a flashback of my old self. I’d traveled for work, walked into rooms by myself and met new people. All on my own.
If Past Me was brave, Present Me could be even braver. I’d navigated real life challenges and survived. It was time to stop grieving the life I expected to have and embark on a journey that would help me build a new life.
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On a whim, I booked the trip to Paris I’d dreamed of, and I called it my “widowmoon,” setting the intention to explore who I was now that I was no longer someone’s wife. I justified the extravagance by choosing the week of my 60th birthday.
When the day finally came, my initial excitement turned into fear. On the way to the airport, I had a tiny panic attack. What was I doing? How could I possibly fly to a country where I didn’t even speak the language? Was this a mistake?
The Uber driver interrupted my thoughts and asked if it was all right to turn on some music. The song was Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten,” which had been my anthem for the past year. The lyrics say, “Live your life with arms wide open. Today is where your book begins. The rest is still unwritten.” It was a sign that I was doing the right thing.
I didn’t sleep during the nine-hour flight, my head buzzing with anticipation. On the ride from Charles de Gaulle Airport to my hotel in the 7th arrondissement, I felt like a child who keeps asking, “Are we there yet?” I tried to act worldly, but seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time was surreal, and I noticed my driver smile at my reaction.
At the hotel, I was greeted by the concierge. It was time to test out my Duolingo French, which mainly consisted of “bonjour,” “s’il vous plait,” and “merci.” Thankfully, the staff spoke English. I checked into my tiny room and sat on the edge of the bed, the bittersweet reason I was there weighing heavy on my mind.
One of the benefits of being away from home was that no one knew I was a widow. No one cocked their head and gave me a sad face or avoided me altogether. No one told me, “You look great,” which is code for “You’re upright and out of the house,” or “You’re so strong,” as if I had a choice. Away from everything familiar, I could start to heal.
Each day, I exited the front door of the hotel and turned whichever direction pulled me. And every time I got a glimpse of the woman I’d set aside so many years before so that I could be a good wife and mother.
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I browsed little shops tucked away in alleys and found lily of the valley scented soap that reminded me of my childhood backyard and scarves like I’d worn in high school. I strolled the Les Champs-Elysées and remembered the woman who was once a fashion reporter but gave it up to become a stay-at-home mom. And I walked to Notre-Dame, which was still in the restoration process after a 2019 fire destroyed the roof and spire. Scaffolding surrounded the majestic structure. I sat nearby and watched the crew, feeling a kinship to the resurgence.
I also relished the slow pace by savoring the moment. I enjoyed a pain au chocolat in the Jardin du Luxembourg. The famous garden was filled with locals on their lunch breaks, chatting and dining amongst the fountains and statues. I thought about how many times I had eaten lunch while working, and how luxurious it felt to snack in one of the world’s most beautiful places. And on my birthday, I treated myself to a lunch cruise down the Seine river where I sat at a table for one and toasted to my new life.
On the final day of my trip, the concierge asked what I planned to do with my last night in Paris. The surge of sadness I felt caught me off guard. I was in a foreign country where I didn’t speak the language, but I oddly felt like I was home. I had reservations at a little place off the beaten path. As I sat at the tiny restaurant table so close to the other diners that I could overhear their conversations, I realized that I was alone—truly alone—and that was OK.
Five days wasn’t enough time, but it was a start. As I boarded the plane to return home, I knew it was time to live and dream again. With the blank page before me, I could write anything I wanted. A drama. Comedy. Suspense. Even romance. I simply needed to be bold enough to put pen to paper. Excited and terrified all at once, I was ready to move forward in a role only I could play, the main character in my own life.
Stephanie Vozza is a Nashville-based freelance writer who explores reinvention, resilience and the art of building an unforgettable life after loss.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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